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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201941">Into the Wild</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenmemento/pseuds/brokenmemento'>brokenmemento</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Harley Quinn (Comics), Poison Ivy (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/F, Falling In Love, Geographical Isolation, Gotham University, Professors, Romance, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:41:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,712</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201941</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenmemento/pseuds/brokenmemento</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Pamela Isley is given a grant from the illustrious Ted Kord due to her promising research at Gotham University, she must spend half a year working in isolation in the Alaskan wilderness. Before she leaves, she must be cleared for assignment by an up and coming psychology professor who manages to throw Pamela through a loop. </p><p>Just when things seem to be going right, the grant committee sends their lead advisor and Pamela's research comes into jeopardy and life as she knows it is never the same.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pamela Isley &amp; Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>336</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Monotony and Misanthropy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yes, kids, you saw that right. I didn't use Bruce Wayne as my token rich guy. Kord's combat style worked for the narrative of this story, so if you are a hardcore cannon comics fan, this probably isn't the story for you. But I did say alternate universe, so take that into account.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>—-One—-</b>
</p><p>Gotham is like a fly trap.</p><p>The unforgiving facade of the steel and brick buildings hold little beauty, the streets dark and seedy where lamplight dares not even go, the creatures using them to lurk in order to take the city apart at the seams. </p><p>These things have a way of grasping someone unaware, of sucking them down in a way that makes it hard for them to move, let alone ever get out. A lot of times, if you’re born in Gotham, to Gotham you will return upon death. It’s a cyclical pattern of the unfortunate kind but one that captures more than the others (the fortunate ones who do leave and never look back). </p><p>The story could be different for the asphalt roads, the alleyways, the spattering of homes in clumps. If there was someone to care (a whole slew of them though), then maybe they could save a place that feels like it’s slipping further away daily. The little blips of happiness, the slivers of green, are eaten by all the ones who revel in the fall. Of what, it does not matter. </p><p>Pamela Isley is glad she has the chance to get away from it. </p><p>As she looks out the window from her office at Gotham University, the late August day does little to relieve the sense of growing excitement she feels to be leaving in a few days. Wide spaces with no pressing of bodies await her, where nature will creep up to her doorstep instead of being a vague memory in a city that likes to thrive on cinder block and chaos, and is a place where she can finally be away from it all. </p><p>Her entire life’s work has come to this, the careful brushstrokes she’s been creating for years on a canvas she wasn’t sure would ever be complete. But now? Now it feels possible.</p><p>Turning from the late afternoon sunlight and the scant people walking the campus sidewalks, she moves to her desk and looks at the folder atop its pristine surface. With a long finger, she slides it closer and opens it again, needing to see it one more time. </p><p>The words<em> Kord Grant </em> and <em> Pamela Isley </em> stand out on the file, formal type outlining the specifics of the research and the expectations of it. Underneath, her initial proposal a thing of beauty but also of sweat and tears. </p><p>In three days’ time, she will be conducting her research in the wilds of Alaska, miles away from the nearest human, and only her plants to keep her company. </p><p>Closing the folder with a smile, time can’t go fast enough.</p><p>——-—-//———</p><p>
  <em> Forty seven hours to departure </em>
</p><p> </p><p>This is really stupid if she’s being honest.</p><p>After wrapping up her class, she’d made the trek across campus to the pods that comprise the psychology department. She’s never spent any time here, instead sticking in the labs and office spaces of the life sciences building. </p><p>Outside, the gothic style architecture is much the same as her own building but inside, it lacks the melancholy tone of its facade. Blinding fluorescent lights illuminate the long hallways where classrooms sit and toward the north side of the building sit the offices of the professors and other associates who call this building home. </p><p>Pamela looks down at the office number again in her hand and scans the doors for the name she is looking for. After a quick weave around the main spaces, she finds an unassuming door with a name placard haphazardly thrown against the wall, almost like an afterthought. </p><p>Like she hasn’t even settled in, Pamela thinks. </p><p>She can practically smell the green on her, the newness of the newest adjunct professor in the department. Sighing heavily, she looks at the nameplate again, <em> Harleen Quinzel, Ph.D. </em> in boxy lettering. She brings a hand delicately against the tempered glass and knocks. </p><p>Her eyes go wide when the door flings open and she jumps back a little, staring into the disheveled visage of what she supposes is the woman bearing the name on the wall. </p><p>Long blonde hair falls past her shoulders and down her back, a slight messiness to it that makes Pamela purse her lips. Her stark blue eyes are alight with adrenaline as a smile curls at her full pink lips. </p><p>If she could look literally anywhere else other than this woman’s face, Pamela would. But she’s caught and openly staring and not uttering one single syllable, as if all sense has left her brain and vocals have disappeared from the cords of her throat. </p><p><em> Say something, Pamela. </em>The other woman breaks the awkward standstill and silence. </p><p>“You must be my 5:45,” the blonde smiles and extends a hand outward. </p><p>Finally, motor function kicks in and Pamela grasps the proffered gesture. She tries to back the action with as much professionalism and confidence as she can, but as the woman grips her hand warmly, Pamela feels a poised chunk dislodge and fall away. She clears her throat to try and gain some composure. </p><p>“Dr. Quinzel. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Isley,” Pamela introduces herself and does not forgo the pleasantries. </p><p>“Harleen. And likewise,” Dr. Quinzel grins a megawatt smile and Pamela is immediately disarmed again. And what is happening right now? Pamela tries to work through it but is gestured into the room. “Come on in. Take a seat.”</p><p>As far as offices go, this one isn’t much. A few frames hang on the wall bearing the woman’s credentials. <em> A Gotham U girl. Back to her roots, </em>Pamela notices. A large bookshelf lines the right-hand wall and various journals and books line the rows. A small model of the various lobes of the brain sits tucked and collecting dust on one, a drooping potted plant clinging to life on another. There are no personal effects on the desk, instead just a heaping stack of folders and papers, pens and paper clips. The detritus looks too great to wade through and for not the first time, Pamela harkens back to the ridiculousness of this all. </p><p>If she is to earn her clearance to begin work on the Kord Grant, she has to play nice. And if she’s learned anything during her time being a professor at Gotham University, it’s how to kiss ass and play nice. After all, the end justifies the means. </p><p>“It looks as if your friend there has seen better days. I’d prescribe some TLC,” Pamela points to the plant on the shelf. </p><p>Dr. Quinzel makes a face and then turns. Her face softens when she sees it and then she turns back, biting her lip and shoving a lock of blonde behind her ear nervously. “Right, that. I’m not exactly a green thumb, as you can tell.”</p><p>“Hedera helix,” Pamela offers. When Dr. Quinzel looks blankly at her, she adds “common ivy.”</p><p>“Does the ‘common’ mean that it’s common for people to kill it? Because I seem to be doing a pretty good job of it,” Dr. Quinzel tries for a joke. </p><p>Pamela finds herself missing the humor. This seems to make the other woman uneasy as she clears her throat this time and starts raking her hands through the myriad of files on her desk. “Yeah, so anyway. Dr. Isley. Lead botanist on campus, if not the world. How did Gotham U get so lucky to have someone of your status?”</p><p>“I went to school in Seattle but made my way here after my doctoral studies. I’d heard Gotham had some interesting investors in the school and was looking for some way to continue my original line of research,” Pamela explains. </p><p>“Which is why you’ve come to me,” Dr. Quinzel clarifies. Pamela has to roll her eyes at this. </p><p>“The school felt the need for me to be vetted by one of their own before I dedicate seven months of my life to the Alaska wilderness with nary a soul in sight for miles around,” she sighs, the exasperation not fully working its way out of her voice. “I’ll begin the rotation and another doctor will pick up the research for the summer months. I’ll return during the fall semesters until my work is complete.”</p><p>By this point, Dr. Quinzel has lost eye contact with her, running a thin finger across the file in front of her. “And what exactly is the focus of your research?”</p><p>“I doubt you’d understand,” escapes Pamela more icily than she intends and she catches herself, trying to remember that the young thing in front of her also holds a doctorate as well. Even if it’s in a branch of science she herself ascribes little importance to. </p><p>“Humor me,” Dr. Quinzel looks up and offers Pamela a wry smile, and why is this woman so damn unnerving? </p><p>Pamela has felt a gamut of emotions since arriving here only a singular number of minutes ago. So far she’s ridden the rollercoaster from annoyance to surprise to agreement to arrogance. And those are just the ones she’ll admit, the others far too confounding to touch upon. </p><p>“I’m looking into the molecular structure of plant life and how deciduous species adapt to extreme conditions. If I’m able to isolate that structure, perhaps I can hybridize it with other species, implant the makeup of it into other organisms,” Pamela tries to explain without sounding know-it-all. </p><p>“So…” Dr. Quinzel chews on her lip again and all Pamela can think of are ways to get her to stop. The woman jolts her out of the thought. “Essentially, how can a living thing adapt enough to survive in any circumstances?” Her face looks pensive. </p><p>“Yes,” Pamela agrees slowly, pretty sure that’s exactly what she said seconds ago. </p><p>“To what end?”</p><p>The question takes Pamela off guard. “Excuse me?”</p><p>Dr. Quinzel leans back in her desk chair, crossing her legs together. Pamela can see the creamy flesh of her lower thighs and delicate knees peeking out from under her gray skirt. She swallows, hopefully not audibly. Now is no time for distraction, no matter how long it’s been since...<em> Get a grip, Pamela. </em> </p><p>“I just mean, let’s say you are able to isolate the pattern or whatever it is that allows these plants to adapt to their harsh environment. What then? Forgive me for my shortsightedness, but I fail to see how this confirmation would be beneficial moving forward,” she stops and then throws a rather disarming smile to Pamela. “At least one that requires no human contact for half a year.”</p><p>“I assure you, that’s the easiest part of this whole thing,” Pamela snorts out before she has time to wrangle in her response. When she sees the woman’s surprised face, she works to take the edge off of her words. “I just mean that...people are complicated creatures. Much harder to pin down as to the methodology of their actions, whereas plant life works in tandem with the flow of nature, of life. You introduce a set of stimuli, you know how it will perform. Give sunlight, photosynthesis occurs. Introduce cold, most plants lack the skills to adapt. It’s not the why with plant life, but the how.”</p><p>“Is that not much the same for humans?” Dr. Quinzel rebuttals. “Happiness, fear, anger, desire. These things are responses to stimuli from a human’s surrounding environment. In a sense, we create our own ecosystem with one another. We either thrive or wilt depending on our ‘nature’ that we exist within.”</p><p>Pamela sits mute. Dr. Quinzel smiles and continues. “Also, I’m not glossing over the fact that you just told me you’d prefer to spend six months with plants instead of being near a human for any amount of time.” Another disarming smile. </p><p>“Is this how all of the professionals operate in your department, Dr. Quinzel?” Pamela huffs a little, ruffled by the joking tone of the woman before her. “You’re meant to determine whether I will keep my wits about me during the period of isolation into which I am going. Not diagnose me based on a few minuscule minutes of time in one another’s presence.”</p><p>Pamela watches as the doctor removes the black frames from her nose, giving the woman a few extra years back to her age. And really, she is quite the specimen if Pamela is being terribly honest. Anyone would be a fool not to see it as well. </p><p>The woman is youthful, yes, but there’s a seasoned air to her too. Small wrinkles are beginning to appear at her eyes which are the color of glacial ice. Almost too pale to be entirely normal. Her nose is defined but attractive, not disproportionate to her face as to be unflattering. Her pink blush lips are slightly rough, probably from that insensible biting that she tends to do to them, but full. She watches Pamela intently before rolling her eyes a little and then picking up the pen beside her hand, opening the folder and scribbling something very quickly in a chaotic script. </p><p><em> Doctors, </em>Pamela thinks but knows her own meticulous handwriting does not fit the stereotype. </p><p>“You’re slightly misanthropic if I do say so myself, but some people, frankly speaking, Dr. Isley, just suck. So I don’t blame you for wanting to get away from society for a while,” Dr. Quinzel continues to annotate. “Whether that is something one would consider a character flaw or an asset remains to be seen.” </p><p>Pamela watches as she closes the file and laces her fingers together on top of it. “I have to send the paperwork to your department head, the members of your grant committee, and the university president as well. As far as I can tell, you’ve got an even head about your shoulders and should have no trouble finding ways to keep you occupied for half a year.” Dr. Quinzel stands then, smoothing her hands over her skirt and offering one outward. Pamela rises as well and deposits her own hand in the woman’s again. </p><p>This time though, something has shifted. Pamela doesn’t know if it’s her or the woman before her, but they’re holding on a little too long, the quiet around them a little too pronounced. And did she just brush a thumb against Pamela’s knuckle? No, she’s imagining things. The touch is merely a figment of Pamela’s imagination. </p><p>“I appreciate your time, Dr. Quinzel,” Pamela manages to ground out, a little robotic in delivery. A bit too formally for the way they’re still irrationally holding hands. Pamela withdraws immediately and sees a creep of a smile on the woman’s lips. </p><p>“Good luck, Dr. Isley,” the woman replies and rounds back to her seat, sitting. </p><p>Pamela knows that’s her cue to leave but finds herself hanging on a second or two longer than necessary. When her feet do move, she’s near the door and already trying to sort out the rampant beat in her chest when the voice behind her sounds again. </p><p>“Not all of us do though, you know. Suck that is.”</p><p>Pamela turns around with mouth agape, lips parted rather unflatteringly. It’s not often that she is ruffled but for the last (she glances at the clock on the wall behind the doctor’s head) thirty-two minutes, she’s felt nothing but. She meets Dr. Quinzel’s thoughtful look and again, the two of them are holding on to something for too long when both should have already let go, when Pamela’s feet should be clipping along at a quick pace on the marble floor out of the psychology wing of Gotham University.</p><p>“Don’t be a stranger,” Dr. Quinzel says softly and it sounds more like a question than a simple declarative statement. A buoyant request.</p><p>One that Pamela has to respond to with a noncommittal hum and leave the room immediately. </p><p>Back in the sanctuary of her own home, she sips on a glass of wine. The tang on her tongue traces down to warm her throat and belly and the light from her laptop casts shifting shadows and brightness across her face and curled red locks. She’s going over her travel itinerary when a notification pops on the screen. </p><p>
  <em> Harleen Quinzel </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dr. Pamela Isley Psychological Evaluation </em>
</p><p>With a lifted eyebrow, she opens the pdf to once again be met with the chaotic scrawl of the woman’s handwriting. Bringing a finger up, she drags it along the touch screen as she looks over the woman’s notes. </p><p>From what she can tell, everything looks in check as she reaches the bottom to see the assessment overview. Not much has been written other than curt, to the point words: <em> capable, intelligent, level-headed, collected.  </em></p><p><em> Cleared for assignment </em> it reads. <em> Harleen Quinzel, PhD </em></p><p>Pamela closes the file and notices the singular sentence (not even really that, the peculiar woman she is) accompanying the paperwork, an addendum. </p><p>
  <em> People&gt;plants but give ‘em hell, Dr. Isley. </em>
</p><p>Pamela closes her laptop and takes another sip of her wine. The smile the plays on her lips is inexplicable. The mysterious doctor somewhere in the ether of this email manages to make her feel more than she’s felt in years.</p><p>The lightness in her chest feels foreign, like it shouldn’t belong there. Not at all something she’s used to. Glancing at her iWatch she sighs. Thirty-five hours to go before she can leave this all behind. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Excitement and Isolation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Even feelings are hard to contain in desolate wilderness miles from people</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, I didn't WANT to use the Joker as the antagonist again but he just works SO WELL with disrupting the Pam/Harley dynamic, I went there again. Hopefully, it doesn't feel repetitious.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When she arrives, the air is mild but gray clouds release constant rain that leaves an eerie mist clinging to the branches of the evergreens that line the Jeep on either side. She watches as the miles pass by, taking her deeper and deeper into the forest. Enveloping her into the mist that only moments before she had been outside of. </p><p>Her ride had given her one last stop off before leaving the world behind, a gas station in a small and unassuming town easily forgotten had it not been on the edge of the world. She’d walked the isles idly, not really needing anything before arriving at the research station. Everything would already be stocked and ready for her.</p><p>Food and supplies for any type of living she might encounter in the winter months, enough equipment and technology to catalog and record her experiments. The only on the surface drawback was that communication would be spotty, at best, and downright impossible at worst. Not a tower for miles, they’d had to get creative with the service provider for Pamela’s internet capabilities. Still, the caveat was to expect frequent disruptions and outages throughout the duration of her stay.</p><p>Not that that would dissuade or interrupt her. Technology is always fickle and she had learned to develop a method to her research that didn’t depend on it resolutely, despite the funding for her research coming from one of the biggest technological gurus in the tristate area.</p><p>She’d grabbed a bottle of water and paid for it, walking back out into the misting air, pulling her thin jacket a little more tightly around her as the moisture began to work its magic on the temperature, sending it sliding backward by a few degrees.</p><p>All in all, the journey had been a couple of hours into the wild, the paved road long giving out to ones made of dirt and mud. Piling out of the now muddy vehicle, Pamela looks at the place she will call home for the next few months.</p><p>The facade is weather-beaten but sturdy, lashed by the unyielding environment surrounding them. A wooden rocker creaks every so often against a tendril of wind licking its surface, a lone sound in a place with not much of anything. </p><p>Off to the side of the space, stacks of firewood and kindling lay beneath a tarp and as Pamela surveys it, she figures it would last her half of her time here. She will eventually need more. Behind the dwelling, she fiddles with a snowmobile that looks as if it has seen better days. The speedometer is cracked and the skis look well used. She makes a note to look for the key. Hopefully, the thing is still in working condition. She will need it for hauling in more wood later on. Deciding there is of little else to see, she makes her way inside. </p><p>A large picture window spans the living room overlooking the forest outside. There’s a sloping hill about 100 yards in the distance and Pamela assumes it leads to the creek that she was told about before arriving. For the most part, the space is rustic. Thick blankets lie around and the couch is simply upholstered, the television set ancient. Out here, there is no cable but she notices an old DVD player connected with an auxiliary cord. </p><p>“Who uses aux cords anymore?” Pamela asks aloud. </p><p>Not that she ever has. She’s not much of a television person, preferring to spend much of her time conducting her experiments, reading up on the latest scientific advancements, or trying to get her own research published to gain traction in the scholarly world. It would be nice to not have to beg for grants and instead have people seeking her out for her acumen. </p><p>Flicking on the switch to the lab, she finds the space adequate and roomy. There are several stations spread throughout the room. One contains microscopes and a lab cabinet of supplies, everything from Petri dishes to test tubes. A long slab runs the length of the room with the materials to begin growing specimens. She takes a cursory glance over them but saves the detailed look for later when she does an inventory of supplies. In the corner sits a clear door medical grade refrigerator whirring quietly. Beside that sits a rather dated looking desktop computer which Pamela assumes she’s supposed to use. Sighing, she reminds herself to try to get her laptop working instead. </p><p>The bedrooms are all pretty uniform, looking much the same. There are six of them, small living quarters with a bit of shelving and a small desk in each. The closet isn’t much but Pamela won’t need much since worrying about her wardrobe is the least of her concerns while here. <em> Not like anyone will be seeing me</em>, she thinks. </p><p>She’s supposed to do a video conference with the grant committee once a week to update them on progress as well as send daily email logs on her research. As she throws open her suitcase and proceeds to set up, she laughs mirthlessly at the fact that communication will probably be sporadic at best. The lack of any bars on her phone is a stark reminder of that. </p><p>It takes a few days to get everything set up and develop a groove, but she does. Most days are spent peering over goggles as she works with soil samples and deconstructs several species of plant. </p><p>Siberian iris, Eurasian watermilfoil, hempnettle, and others join in with bits of spruce and aspen, balsam and poplar, pine and fir. If she can find the sequence, the process as to how these life forms are able to survive despite being pummeled with extreme weather, she might be able to give them what they want. </p><p><em> Mother Earth, help us then</em>, Pamela thinks. </p><p>But what if she could save the world from the plights of humanity, from them draining Her dry of resources-copper, tin, gold, silver? What if she could diminish the uses of plastic and other harmful substances that linger forever, never taken back into the soil of the world? What if they could grow their armor, their shields, their weapons? It could change the way that forces clash forever. </p><p>Not that Pamela wants to think about war, no. But with men like Bruce Wayne and Ted Kord, men like Ra’s Al Ghul and Lex Luthor, she’s sure the shaky peace of life currently in effect will not last forever. If she can find the key to this research, maybe she can make it so that they all destroy one another and leave something behind for the rest. Or at least herself. </p><p>Taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes, she decides to get a little fresh air. She puts up her samples and makes her way to the front room, shrugging on her coat and pulling on a cap. </p><p>Somehow it’s become September and outside the air is crisp. She may have another month or so until the snow comes and she’s ready to burrow in and test out her theories in earnest. With an armload of kindling, Pamela heads back to the house and tries to stomp a little mud off her boots before walking through the door. </p><p>After a small fire is in the workings, she plops down on the couch and pulls out her phone. Miraculously, there’s a bar. Touching the icon to her email, she opens it and waits for the WiFi to determine whether it wants to cooperate. After a few long and tedious seconds, it loads. </p><p>The first one she opens is from the Kord Grant committee, more notably from the person reasonable for overseeing the funding. Pamela groans as she reads the highlighted notes obliterating her screen from some Jack, whoever the fuck he is. He’s picking every aspect of her work apart and pushing for answers she doesn’t have yet. </p><p>If this is a sign of things to come, she knows it’s going to be a long six month battle with him on her ass nonstop. Sighing, she files the response into a separate folder. There are a few other emails but most end up in the trash. Just as she gets a bit click happy with the delete button, she has to stop quickly to avoid trashing another one she hadn’t been expecting at all.</p><p> </p><p><b>Harleen Quinzel                                              </b> <em>    9:42 </em></p><p>
  <em> The Misanthrope in the Forest </em>
</p><p>Hey! Just wanted to check in and see how things are going...</p><p>Pamela sits up and leans over, pressing her thumb against the message. </p><p>
  <em> Dr. Isley,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hey! Just wanted to check in and see how things are going. I know it’s only been a few weeks since we spoke, but I wanted to make sure that your research is well on its way and your spirits are high.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had a brief encounter with one of the committee members of your grant and they had nothing but promising things to say about the work you're doing. I’ll admit I didn’t press too far into the logistics of it, but the excitement he exuded toward it was palpable. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There amongst the trees, I’m sure your ability to communicate is less than adequate most of the time, but don’t feel as if your connection to the outside world is all but severed. If you ever need anything, I’m a phone call away, day or night. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Continued success to you, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Harleen Quinzel, PhD </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Gotham University Psychology Department </em>
</p><p>It’s all rather formal yet still leaves an odd fluttering sense in Pamela’s chest. The number attached isn't one connected to the school’s directory. She herself has a number assigned within the school’s system and this does not match in any regard. </p><p><em> A personal number then. </em> </p><p>Is this what she thinks it is or is she elevating the meaning behind it for her own sake? It’s hard to tell when being tucked away from the world. Moreover, even if she were still a part of society, she’s not sure she would understand the implications behind this. </p><p>Misanthropic or not (boy, has the doctor latched on to <em> that </em> tidbit) Pamela has managed to pull her fair share of phone numbers in her thirty-three years. She’s well aware of her own beauty, not in a vain way but in the sense that it’s often helped her get a lot of things that otherwise may have proven more difficult. </p><p>She knows hard work, has busted her ass to get where she is with nothing short of bone breaking dedication. But when it comes to who she invites into her bed, the difficulty of it certainly wanes in comparison to her professional life. But it’s not like she’s <em> good </em> at it. It’s just all rather easy. </p><p>Part of her almost punches the delete button. Part of her wants to have her head examined when she sends a quick response email with only her cell number as a reply. Part of her thinks she’s actually certifiable as she creates a contact for a woman she barely knows and tries not to make something out of nothing. </p><p>The new addition to her digital Rolodex burns on the screen. It’s only been four fucking hours since she got the email to begin with. She has to get up immediately and throw herself back into work before her itchy fingers do something she knows she will regret later on. </p><p>****************</p><p>A vibrating jolts her out of slumber and she frowns at the crick in her neck. Her face feels numb too as she rises and realizes she’s fallen asleep at the desk area in the lab. When her eyes focus on the screen, her rabbit heart scampers inside her chest. </p><p>“I’m not going to answer. This is weird,” she mutters to absolutely no one. Her resolve lasts all of one second after she’s said the words and she’s lunging for her phone before the call drops. “Hello?”</p><p>“Dr. Isley?” the voice asks, sounding somehow a million miles away and right beside her at the same time. </p><p>“This is she,” Pamela responds and winces at the formality in her tone. She looks at the wall clock that reads 7:14. So three hours ahead in Gotham. </p><p>“Wow, I wasn’t expecting to actually get through to you,” Dr. Quinzel laughs incredulously. “How about that.”</p><p>“Yes, quite fortunate considering my location,” Pamela replies. Still too fucking formally. Ugh. </p><p>As if seeming to realize something, the other woman loses a bit of gusto on the line. “Oh, gosh. I really didn’t think this through. I’m sure you’re terribly busy and I’m interrupting your work.”</p><p>“If you count drooling on a resin countertop, sure.” Pamela rubs her face and tries to ease on the sarcasm but thankfully, a laugh erupts in her ear. </p><p>“Must be the neverending daylight throwing off your schedule. I don’t know how you do it. And to think, it’s about to be the opposite for you in a few months. I can’t imagine hardly seeing the sun,” the doctor says. </p><p>“We live in Gotham. Most of the time, air pollution prevents us from ever seeing the sun without a layer of smog. At night, the light pollution all but obliterates the stars,” Pamela answers wryly. </p><p>“What are those things again?” Dr. Quinzel asks. </p><p>“Right?” Pamela actually laughs out of her mouth. <em> Just like a real woman too. Way to go, Pam.  </em></p><p>A silence falls between them. Not one that Pamela would consider awkward per se, but definitely growing. She works to get them back on track despite not being the one to initiate this impromptu chat in the first place.</p><p>“So, what is one to do on a September Friday night in Gotham, Dr. Quinzel?” </p><p>“Please, call me Harley.”</p><p>“Harley?” This takes Pamela back a little. </p><p>“Dr. Quinzel is for colleagues, Harleen for acquaintances.” </p><p>“I’m both of those things,” Pamela intercuts. </p><p>“Right, well. Harley is who I am at my core. That’s what everyone else calls me. People I’m close to.”</p><p>Right. Which insinuates that there is something deeper going on that’s only managed to make a scratch on the surface. Pamela doesn’t feel like fighting against it though, so agrees without much kickback. </p><p>“Well, Harley. While I’m knee-deep in plant samples, tell me your evening holds a bit more entertainment value.”</p><p>“I am talking to you after all, Pamela.”</p><p>So that’s how this is going to go. She hadn’t opened that door, but after requesting to be called Harley, Pamela assumes the woman felt it just as appropriate to use a less stuffy interaction as well. The thing is, Pamela has never had to grip her own thigh before from just hearing her first name spoken. </p><p><em> I should have gotten laid before I left </em> , she thinks. <em> But not by this one! Calm yourself for the hundredth time!  </em></p><p>And really, it’s hard to get her head from between her legs when she’s spent as long as she can remember working toward obtaining this grant in the first place. She’s staved off and gone without because there has been <em> work </em> and there still is but in the lull of it now, she’s being painfully reminded of her glaring humanity. And humility. </p><p>“If I’m your best option at entertainment, you should probably reevaluate your options,” Pamela manages to answer back. </p><p>“Oh, come on now. You’re selling yourself short. I found you quite intriguing when we met. You’ve only furthered my initial observation.” </p><p>She’s got to get the fuck off the phone right the fuck now. Harley isn’t a person she knows, much less should be speaking to in this manner (or thinking about) but a cold shower and a good night's sleep seem imperative to distance herself from whatever is happening. </p><p>Neither of which happen because her rogue mouth is apparently in tandem with whatever thoughts have lodged themselves between her legs because she leans forward and wraps a red tendril of her hair around her finger. What comes out of her mouth is anything but a goodbye. </p><p>“All that talk about misanthropy and here you are trying to engage with one,” Pamela chides. “It’s as if you are a glutton for punishment.” </p><p>“Maybe I just like a challenge, which you seem to be,” the voice is soft on the other line. </p><p>Pamela’s skin flushes even hotter. <em> Get. Off. The. Phone. </em></p><p>“Hmm, and what of yourself?” Pamela practically hums. “I think I’ve got you fairly pegged as well.”</p><p>“Oh, is that so?”</p><p>“You’re the type of person who hyper fixates on something when you find it confusing. You want to tear it apart and figure it out, create a chaotic mess of it before you try to put it back together. You thrive on the thrill of never knowing what to expect from people. They both terrify and intrigue you and you never know whether you’ll revel in it or let it consume you,” Pamela explains with too much of a lilt. </p><p>She sits up straight-backed when she realizes what she’s done. In her ear, she hears the other woman’s throat clearing and Pamela knows she’s gone too far, said way too much for not even knowing this person at all. This is why she is more at ease away from people, less likely to say or do the wrong thing. </p><p>“That’s your expert opinion of me then?” Harley questions and Pamela doesn’t know how to respond. </p><p>“I’m sorry. That was out of line. I don’t know you, Dr. Quinzel, and I should have kept my mouth shut about things I have no expertise in,” Pamela sighs in embarrassment. She frowns when she hears something like a splash of water in the background. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Oh, the noise? Yes, sorry. I’ve run a bath. Eight hours in heels is probably not a smart thing to do on a regular basis,” Harley explains and now Pamela is having to deal with the duality of feeling both regretful and mortified that this woman is about to be stripped bare. </p><p>If not already. </p><p>Pamela struggles to swallow. “I should let you go then. Thanks for checking up on me. Everything’s good.”</p><p>It’s the banalest of things she can say but considering she should have gotten off of the phone before the conversation took a nosedive, it will have to do.</p><p>“I’ll talk to you soon then?” And why does it sound so damn <em> hopeful </em> after Pamela just practically verbally backhanded her? She doesn’t know how to respond and Harley seems to pick up on this. “What you said—it’s fine, really. It’s not my first time to be analyzed and I’m sure it won’t be my last.” There’s a quick laugh to punctuate her sentence. </p><p>“I think most people text these days too. I mean, that seems like a satisfactory method of communication to combat the spotty service issue,” Pamela finds herself mumbling. </p><p>“Alright then. Text or call absolutely whenever. Goodnight, Pamela.”</p><p>“Goodnight, Harley,” Pamela breathes into the phone after practically imagining the smile at the other woman’s lips. </p><p>She pulls back to see the icons of her screen shining in the dim light of the lab. </p><p>“Fuck,” she breathes. </p><p>She is well and truly screwed. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Flirting and Frustrations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really thought about using another villain but Joker works so well to screw up the dynamic between Harley/Ivy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time she meets October, flurries have begun to cascade down on several days during the week. The light is also getting thinner, the world a little darker, and Pamela throws herself into her work with all the fervor she can muster. </p><p>The breakthrough comes close to mid month when she’s able to replicate the sequence that many trees use during the winter months, the conversion of starches to sugar which lowers the freezing point inside of the cells. Essentially, antifreeze is created to ensure the viability of the organism. </p><p>Now that she can test its success rate on, say, other areas of interest, this could be a huge step moving forward in the world of green living and climate change. All of these points are included in her weekly research logs and a report showing the microscope slides with the cellular components amplified and explained. </p><p>It takes all of thirteen hours before there’s another highlighted and annotated copy of her findings back in her inbox. Growling, she doesn’t even think as she clicks on her FaceTime app and dials the metaphorical ink bleeder in person. </p><p>When his mug comes on the screen, Pamela knows her face is nothing but a sneer. </p><p>“Okay, what in the actual fuck,” she spits on venomously, heedless of the repercussions of speaking this way to whom she’s dialed. </p><p>“Calm down there, Oakey,” his smarmy voice tries for de-escalation when in fact, he is doing nothing but the opposite. </p><p>“It’s Isley, which you know because you tear apart every lab report and research log I send to the committee. Who gave you the right? Is Mr. Kord inflating you with all of your imagined power or are you just taking it upon yourself to make me crawl through so much red tape that I forfeit my inquiries?”</p><p>“Far from it, Ms. Isley. In fact, I’m pushing you so hard because your research is imperative to not only Mr. Kord but other parties involved going forward.” He runs a well-manicured hand back through his black hair and casts his yellow eyes back at the screen. “This might be hard to believe, but I’m in fact your biggest cheerleader at the moment. </p><p>Pam scoffs. Yeah fucking right. Which is exactly what she says. </p><p>“Believe me, don’t. It’s really only necessary that you continue on. Mr. Kord has relayed to the University that you are to have unlimited funds at your disposal. Just say the word and it’s yours. You should want for nothing out there in your backwoods hovel,” he grins. </p><p>“Look, Mr, Napier…”</p><p>“Ms. Isley, the thing about greatness is that some are born with it, some achieve it, and some have it thrust upon them. We want to ensure the later two are because of the joint interests of Kord Tech and Gotham University.”</p><p>“Did you really just quote Shakespeare to placate me?” Pamela asks incredulously. Below the surface, she’s still simmering but the boil has been removed from the stove so to speak. </p><p>“So quick to anger. Maybe you need a re-eval with Dr. Quinzel. The months seem to be getting to you.”</p><p>Pamela curls her fingers behind the phone’s screen into a fist. While she’d like nothing more than to take a swing at his guy with the hand she’s curled up, she knows she’s got a little over five months left to her post and she absolutely can’t jeopardize what she’s only just begun to figure out. </p><p>“I’m fine,” Pamela says airily. “And I’ve got to go. Goodbye.” She doesn’t wait for him to offer a closing. The conversation is over. </p><p>The mention of Harley’s name had only added to the chagrin too. In the three weeks since the initial phone call, the texts have been frequent, the calls more spaced out but still existing. Despite the heaviness of their first phone call, Pamela would dare to venture that they've developed a rapport with one another that could be likened to friendship. </p><p>The woman certainly helps to speak to now and again, her texts even more buoyant and keeping Pamela from going under. She finds herself glancing at her phone throughout the day, mind wandering occasionally to touch upon the woman she now knows outside of a cursory conversation. </p><p><em> &gt;&gt;&gt;Ugh, the committee chair is so annoying. </em> </p><p>She startles a little when she realizes what she’s doing. Absently, she’s opened up a text to Harley and typed something out. Pamela still isn’t sure of her schedule, has felt awkward about delving too deep into her life if she doesn’t offer it. And honestly, she could be in a class right now, but Pamela is frustrated and for once, talking to someone actually seems like a good idea. </p><p>She hits send and then stands up from the stool, walking back over to the microscope slides she’d abandoned in favor of dialing the man at the top of her shit list. Which...includes a lot of men. </p><p>It’s not that she hates them. They’re just incredibly brutish sometimes and have a way of wanting to feel like the biggest in the room even if they are not. Mr. Kord is pleasant enough and she had admired his poise and easy going attitude, much less stiff and serious than Bruce Wayne. But outside of the man funding her research, she’s found few that keep her from wanting to wrap her fingers tightly around their throats. </p><p>Her phone vibrates on her hip and she pulls it from the pocket she’d stuffed it in moments before. </p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;<em> Is everything alright? Who is he?  </em></p><p>
  <em> &gt;&gt;&gt;Some asshole named Jack Napier. He seems to think he’s god’s gift to science. Or money. Or both. Anyway, sorry. I should have asked if you had a class. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> &lt;&lt;&lt;Napier, you say? I think I’ve met the guy. Kind of a weasley type of person. He was very smug at the last conference we hosted on extending services to online platforms regarding mental health. Anyway, he has his hand in everything around here. He’s sort of well known around Gotham too. Anyway, you in need of a vent session? I know a good therapist ❤️ </em>
</p><p>Pamela actually laughs out loud when she reads it but then sobers when she sees the heart at the end of the message. She’s not an emoji kind of texter. Honestly, she’s not even sure she’s ever used one. Maybe she really is out of touch with humanity, because she shakes her head and dutifully ignores the icon. </p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<em> Who needs Google when I have you? I guess you could say I’m out of the loop on Gotham’s ‘Who’s Who.’ Also, I’m not sure I could afford you for therapy </em>. </p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;<em> Good thing we’re friends so that all comes free. Part of the package, Pam.  </em></p><p>
  <em> &gt;&gt;&gt;So...we’re friends.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> &lt;&lt;&lt;Would you say that we’re not?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> &gt;&gt;&gt;No! It’s just that I’ve never really had a lot of friends ever so I mean...it’s nice to think I might.  </em>
</p><p>Pamela groans and works her way through wrinkling her nose and closing her eyes tightly. “Be more awkward, geez.”</p><p>She bobbles the phone when it vibrates and rings, Harley’s name and number flashing on the screen. Would she like to accept? Swallowing, she presses the green button and the video fizzes to life, Harley’s features filling the screen. </p><p>Her hair is up in a bun at the back of her head and she’s wearing her glasses. Ceiling passes by overhead as Pamela watches her blue eyes scan her surroundings as she walks down a hallway, at work she assumes. When she glances down at the screen to see Pamela has connected, her face brightens and her lips form a smile. </p><p>“So I’m glad we got that cleared up,” Harley smirks. “I was beginning to wonder if I was being a terrible nuisance to you while you’re off saving the planet and whatnot.”</p><p>Pamela rolls her eyes. “I guess this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship then.” </p><p>“That’s the only kind to have,” Harley looks down at the screen again and her cheeks are so pink and full of life! If Pamela weren’t a little sick from watching the screen, she might take a bit more time to process the observation. </p><p>“Geez, Harleen. Where are you taking me?” she faux groans. Well, not really. The camera is a bit shaky from the other woman’s journey. </p><p>“Almost to my office, so hang on a sec.”</p><p>She watches as Harley closes the door and makes her way to her desk. Harley plops down and props the phone against something to keep it upright. Leaning in on her elbows, she smiles again. “Don’t let Jack make anything off of you, Pamela. He may be overbearing, but don’t change what you’re doing because of him. The world needs people like you.”</p><p>Her heart swells and she tries to play off that fact. “He’s just so combative! I feel like I’ve taken so much off of him and he backed me into a corner, so I just sort of snapped today. He said that money was no issue on the grant, but I can’t help but feel like he would ax it if it doesn’t serve some self-filling purpose to him,” she admits frankly. </p><p>Pamela watches as Harley glances at the door and then removes her glasses. The sapphire of her eyes twinkle even in the built in phone camera and everything teeters and stumbles in Pamela’s body. </p><p>
  <em> Okay, fine. You’re attracted to her. Now ease up.  </em>
</p><p>“You are kind. You are smart. You are important,” Harley leans in to say into the camera. </p><p>“Did you just quote<em> The Help?</em>” her face scrunches up. Harley laughs like a bell.</p><p>“Not bad on sentiment though, right?” Harley smiles radiantly. “I just wish you could see how brilliant you are. See yourself the way I see you.” She looks off as she says this so that they’re eyes don’t meet. Or can’t. </p><p>Pamela nervously fidgets. Runs a hand through her red hair wildly. “Thanks, I guess.”</p><p>“So self-deprecating,” Harley turns back to the camera and quirks her lips. “Someone might say that means something deeper.”</p><p>“Okay, I’m hanging up now,” Pamela tries for a grumble but her own smile is forming too. </p><p>“Fine,” Harley rolls her eyes. “Talk later?” </p><p>Pamela tries to ignore the lilt in Harley’s voice, the one in her own answer. “You know it.”</p><p>She’s still staring at her phone when she lays it on the counter of her workstation and puts on her lab coat, winding her hair up in a bun and grabbing her glasses out of their case nearby. </p><p>Her best work gets done after she talks to Harley, another thing she’d rather not have analyzed. Luckily, there’s no one around to do that and she would never divulge that little tidbit to her blonde friend. </p><p><em> My friend</em>. Pamela can’t help but let the feeling bloom colorfully inside of herself, filling up her mind and her chest. </p><p>Walking over to her scientific grade freezer, she opens it and studies the various plants lined on the shelves, the leaves and stems and needles all vibrantly green, no sign of dying. The first stage of her testing seems to be complete, the DNA engineering she’s done keeping them alive. </p><p>The next stage of her trials can begin now. If things keep going well, she’ll have something to ensure unlimited funding and time to work for the interests of Mr. Kord and the watchful eye of the committee. The leering eyes of Jack Napier leading the charge. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Vulnerability and Visits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pammy does some more flirting, Jack shows up, Pammy realizes her flirt game is going to have to go in person</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week goes by after the tense conversation with Jack Napier, the ensuing one with Harley. Both for very different reasons. </p><p>Pamela boots up her laptop, looking at the November sky, surprisingly clear but the weather chilly. With a cup of coffee in her hand, she logs onto her email. Mid sip, she chokes on it when she sees the words burn onto her screen:</p><p>
  <em> Itinerary for Jack Napier’s visit, 11/13-11/18 </em>
</p><p>No. God, just no. Pamela feels the bile churning in her stomach, rising in her throat. What possible reason could he have for coming to the remote wilderness? </p><p>
  <em> To check on you and your work, no doubt.  </em>
</p><p>She scans the rest of the document, emits a growl as she looks at the notated margins of some of her lab reports indicating what he expects to see and what he’s supposed to relay to the committee. </p><p>Two days. Two fucking days and then she’s got to spend almost a week showing him her research. Will have to play nice in order to keep her grant. </p><p>It shoots her day to shit, makes the hours blur together as she immerses herself in her tests, putting her altered plants through so many trials that her back begins to hurt and her eyes ache. It’s only after she stops to take an aspirin that she notices her phone—2 missed calls and 7 texts. </p><p>She listens to the voicemail of the first call, the university trying to confirm she’s received the email and is ready to accommodate Jack’s arrival two days hence. Pamela groans and deletes it immediately. </p><p>The next one has the exact opposite reaction, causing warmth to bubble in her chest. She closes her eyes against the voice, the cadence of the somewhat New York accent soothing instead of grating. This one, she doesn’t delete. </p><p>After skimming the messages, she decides to answer the multiple queries clogging her inbox. </p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;Sorry, got caught up in some experiments after a bit of bad news. I wasn’t ignoring you, I promise. </p><p>Pamela hits send and immediately the status of it changes from delivered to read. Blue bubbles pop up and she feels her pulse quicken. </p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;What kind of bad news? Is everything okay?</p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;Nothing I can’t handle. Frustratingly. </p><p>She finds her teeth grinding as she types it, back to the anger of having to put on a happy face and defend her research. Especially to someone who doesn’t have a clue about science nor her work. </p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;Can I call?</p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;Yes. </p><p>The message would be a breathy thing if Pamela were to speak it. She’s thankful she has time to gather herself before Harley’s number fills her screen. </p><p>“Hey,” Pamela sighs when she answers. </p><p>“Start from the beginning and tell me everything,” Harley demands. “Actually, wait.”</p><p>Pamela frowns and then hears the beeping in her ear. She moves the phone away and sees the FaceTime request. What is it with Harley and her face to face? Must be the psychologist in her. She presses accept anyway. </p><p>The thing about these requests (because they’ve done this several times now) is that it’s becoming increasingly hard to remain passive or neutral. Pamela’s never been one to go on face journey’s but talking with Harley makes her feel incredibly flayed open. Like the woman can simply look at her and read absolutely everything Pamela has worked to keep hidden or just really far away. </p><p>Her face flutters on the screen and her sky blue eyes dance. “There’s my beautiful friend.”</p><p>It catches Pamela off guard and she laughs. “Well, hey to you too, cute stuff.”</p><p>“Mmm, I’ll take it,” Harley wiggles a little in delight. She sets her phone down and Pamela watches her unwind her hair from its bun and the blonde locks fall to her shoulders. She musses a bit and then sighs. “Okay, now on with the bad news.”</p><p>Pamela is still caught up in having watched Harley literally let her hair down that she stumbles a bit on her words. “Well, you know how I took this assignment and was supposed to be away from any human contact for months? I got word this morning that Jack Napier is flying out day after tomorrow to look at my progress firsthand.”</p><p>“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Harley’s jaw drops open. </p><p>“God, I wish I were. It’s bad enough with him ripping my reports apart over the computer but having him <em> be </em> here? It’s going to be the longest four and a half days of my life,” Pamela practically whines. Or at least the closest she will ever get to it. </p><p>“Any idea what his angle is by showing up in person?” </p><p>“I’ve racked my brain over it. From what I can gather, it’s at the committee’s behest, but if Kord was so adamant to see my results, he should be the one showing up on my doorstep, not Napier.”</p><p>Harley scoffs and rolls her eyes, takes off her glasses, and lays them down. Like this, she looks more girlish. So young still. Nowhere near the thirty plus years she has seen. </p><p>“Rich people always send peons to do their dirty work,” Harley throws out with ire behind it. </p><p>“Guess I better get my entertaining pants on,” Pamela rests her face in her palm. </p><p>Harley’s face brightens. “You’re talking to me without pants on? How scandalous. Tell me more.” She waggles her eyebrows.</p><p>“You are ridiculous.” A genuine laugh erupts from Pamela but then falls. She edges close to the truth, toes it. Lets it fall out. “I wish you were coming to see me instead.” It’s almost a whisper when it comes out. </p><p>The blonde’s face goes soft, maybe Pamela even sees a bit of pink tinge her cheeks. “I’d love that too,” she exhales tenderly. </p><p>They stare at one another through the screens, thousands of miles apart, but it feels like Pamela could reach out to her phone and feel Harley against her fingers. </p><p>“I shouldn’t have said that,” Pamela huffs, embarrassed. </p><p>“Should I not have either then?” It’s a challenge. Harley is challenging her to walk back her comment. </p><p>“Harley, is something going on between us?” her audacious mouth actually speaks. Pamela covers it quickly. </p><p>To her credit, Harley handles it rather well. Her head only tilts to the side and she looks into the phone more intently. “What do you mean?”</p><p>Pamela can’t tell if she’s playing dumb, generally has no clue, or is trying to feel her out before she commits to an answer. Regardless, it’s hard to know where to go from here. </p><p>“It’s been a long day. I think I’ve overworked myself and I’m worrying about Napier showing up. It’s all just getting to me, I think,” Pamela waves off. No big deal. None at all.</p><p>“Why do you run from me?” Harley asks all of a sudden. Pamela’s head jerks back up. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever tried so hard to get to know someone and yet I feel as if there’s so much more to you below the surface of what you show me.”</p><p>“Character flaw,” Pamela offers. The tone is a little biting. </p><p>“Would it be so bad to let me in?”</p><p>“Why? So you can report back to the grant committee about how far removed from humanity I am? About how I’m so damn frightened to let anyone get close to me emotionally because I don’t trust them with my heart? About how I’ve buried myself in my work so long, I don’t even know how to have a fucking friend?”</p><p>“You think I talk to you for the committee’s sake?” Harley wonders, but her tone is measured, careful. Dare Pamela think it, perturbed. </p><p>“I’m saying...maybe.” She can’t look at Harley when she says it.</p><p>It should be the end of their conversation. She should be staring at her home screen with nothing but audio silence in her ears. She shouldn’t see Harley’s pensive face holding more than she can even begin to categorize. </p><p>“Then I guess I’ll just have to find some other way to convince you,” Harley purses her lips. Sighs. “Goodnight, Red.” </p><p>The screen goes away. Pamela’s heart feels a confusing duality: numb because she’s most surely screwed up a good thing—but a thumbprint too, a touch that wants to be acknowledged. </p><p><em> Not Pamela, Red</em>, she thinks. <em> She called me Red.  </em></p><p>
  <em> ******************* </em>
</p><p>Her sleep is fitful, uncontrolled. The bed covers are a mess and she wakes up feeling more tired than she was before she went to bed. </p><p>The tossing and turning intermingled with light bouts of slumber but nothing meaningful. The first thing she does when she steps out away from the jumble is to grab her phone and send out a text. </p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;I’m sorry about last night. Forgive me, please?</p><p>Unlike yesterday, the status of it doesn’t change. No dots form. She waits for ten minutes before throwing in the towel. If Harley wants to respond, she will. If not, Pamela will have to figure out how to pick up the small fragments skittering out of her chest in ache. </p><p>She’s essentially worthless. Her work is just like her sleep—disjointed, slightly chaotic. An Erlenmeyer flask suffers from it and she has to start over several times on a gene splicing sequence she begins. When she stops at noon to eat a small meal, she tries not to be despondent over the lack of messages coming to her. Or none. </p><p>Lunch is wholly unsatisfying, the food like sawdust in her mouth, and she only eats half before putting it away.</p><p>Outside, the day is gray again. The temperature gauge reads 19 degrees, so she pulls on her boots and coat to gather some wood for a fire. With an armload in her possession, she treks back to the house and works the kindling and other logs into a roar, the heat emitting soothing to her slightly frozen fingers. </p><p>It’s after two when she heads back into the lab and manages to exhaust the rest of the day. But the time ten rolls around, she’s ready to call it done with. </p><p>Maybe she checks her phone as she leaves her lab. Maybe she looks at it again as she towels off her damp red locks and gets ready for bed. Nothing new appears. It’s what sends her into a land of black nothingness, where even dreams do not go. </p><p>She jolts awake at the buzzing of an alarm and squints an eye against the time lighting up the screen. “Fuck,” Pamela mutters and smashes her face into her pillow. Only a few hours until she’s back in the presence of humanity again.</p><p>Or something resembling it.</p><p>Her mood is sour when she walks out onto the front porch as the Jeep that carried her into the deepest part of the woods rolls to a stop and Jack Napier gets out of the back passenger side. </p><p>A grimace tugs at her features as she watches him walk around to the trunk and offload his much too large suitcase for a four day stay. She hears him bark something and then pulls another case from the back. </p><p><em> Much too much </em>. Pamela shakes her head in derision. What a fucking diva. His green eyes flit to Pamela standing on the porch as he sinks his pale neck a little lower into his purple jacket. Which makes Pamela do a double take again. </p><p>She almost laughs at his ridiculousness but restrains that particular compulsion when someone else rounds the other side. Pamela loses the damn air in her lungs. </p><p>One, two, three blinks doesn’t change the vision on her eyes. Black combat boots crunch on the gravel of the drive, black jeans with the knees ripped out on a slender set of hips. A red hoodie and black puffy jacket mostly hide the rest of her form. </p><p>The unmistakable part, the markers that let Pamela know what she’s seeing is real, is the long blonde hair showing from underneath a beanie that matches her hoodie. Her azure eyes find Pamela’s jade ones from where she stands by the vehicle. </p><p>It feels like a jackhammer is going on inside of her body and Pamela has to lean against the porch frame to calm her nerves. After digging her nails into the pine of it, she decides to move and descends down the few steps to meet her company. </p><p>Jack may as well not exist because she doesn’t give two shits about him at all. Not with Harley standing there, wisps of white fluff finding their way into her hair and making her look like an ethereal snow angel.</p><p>She’d like to say the first words out of her mouth are profound, poetic even. Especially to one of the people that’s dominated almost every waking thought since Pamela had walked into an office at Gotham U. </p><p>When she speaks though, they’re absolute garbage. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Pissed Off and Panicked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harley and Pam finally talk in person after weeks of Facetime flirting. It doesn't go well. (Have I mentioned Pam sucks at courting? She so does.)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Short chapter but things are about to start heating up</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What she should have said was “God, it’s so great to see you again, Harley” or “What a wonderful surprise” or “I’ve been worried sick since our talk the other night and you not texting me back.”</p><p>None of those things get spoken. In fact, she doesn’t even address Harley at all. </p><p>“What’s she doing here?” is the brilliant sentence she comes up with after two months of conversing with the woman in front of her yet asked to the skeeze she’s with. </p><p>Pamela doesn’t miss the fall of her face, the turning to stone of her features. Harley is fucking pissed. </p><p>“I take it you remember Dr. Quinzel,” Napier points and throws his shoulders back. Pamela notices his wingtip shoes, not boots, against the permafrost ground. Okay…</p><p>“We met before...briefly,” Pamela manages to stammer out. <em> And I’ve been emailing, texting, and video chatting with her in my every free second for the last few months</em>, she thinks. That goes unsaid of course.</p><p>“Yes, I mean, her psych eval,” Harleen supplies. “I just thought it might be a good idea to follow up on that. Maybe I could use some of what I’m learning for my own research.” This is said with blue eyes pinning Pamela against a metaphorical wall. </p><p>Right. Because what other reason could she have for flying all the way across the country and trekking into the wilderness with an absolute douche of a human? Pamela doesn’t want to suspect. Assumes it has zero to do with the conversation from two nights ago. </p><p>“Whatever,” Napier grumbles. “It’s colder than shit out here. Can we please go somewhere that my blood can thaw out from ice?” </p><p>Pamela finds it amusing that he’s been in the outdoors for all of five minutes and is already craving warmth. Pretty standard for a cold-blooded creature though, this one a snake in the forest, so she nods silently and opens a conciliatory palm out to him meaning <em> you first </em>. </p><p>He jerks his case along the rocks and Pamela waits a breath before not even looking at Harley and reaching for the handle on hers, following along behind him with it in tow. Whatever Harley thinks of her chivalry, she doesn’t say a word. Pamela can feel her eyes burning into her back. </p><p>Once inside, they remove their coats and other cold gear. She watches as he throws his on the couch after he’s removed them and glares at his blatant disregard for her space. </p><p>“Not bad for a cottage in the middle of absolutely nowhere,” Napier shrugs and takes to looking around the living room. His face never changes from judgemental. </p><p>“Uh, you can take your pick of the spare rooms. There is one off to the side of the lab. It’s probably the more spacious of them. There is another next door to my room and has a tub instead of a shower. Just depends on what your preference is,” Pamela explains. </p><p>She motions down the hall to one of the spare rooms, the one next to her which she hopes Harley takes. She glances over, silently begs with her eyes. She points again to the other one which is across the house, closer to her lab and away from the other areas. </p><p>“Right, so I’ll just get my things settled and then make us something for lunch. How does that sound?” Harley smiles tightly at Pamela, never looking over at Jack. </p><p>Pamela looks at him though, sees the way he narrows his eyes at the way Harley has her eyes trained on her. It’s like his fuse has been lit and she’s watching the wick burn slowly, waiting for him to blow. It’s why she does what she does. </p><p>“Sounds great, don’t you agree, Jack?” Pamela nods and comes to stand beside him, laying a hand on his arm. Her stomach does flips, the touch almost nauseating to do. But she’d felt the need to protect Harley in some way. </p><p>He turns his beady green eyes to her, holding no sense of warmth when he looks at the hand she’s laid on his shoulder. <em> So not the same thing he feels for Harley. Noted. Protect her, Pamela.  </em></p><p>“Actually, I’m feeling a bit jet-lagged,” he steps away from her touch. <em> Thank fuck. </em>Her hand feels like it’s been burned. “I may go lay down for a spell to regain some energy. Be ready to show me your work at 3 pm promptly.”</p><p>He turns on a heel in dismissal, gratefully moving toward the direction of the bedroom nearer the lab. Harley drops her smile and pivots on a foot, quickly moving away from Pamela and down the hall. </p><p>Pamela, dumbly, follows. Harley says nothing as they both enter the room she will be using and with one last look back down the hall, Pamela closes the door. </p><p>“Fucking hello to you too,” Harley grounds out and tosses her beanie on the small desk. </p><p>“Harley, what are you doing here? Seriously!” Pamela tries to whisper, but it comes out in much the wrong tone. Basically like everything else she’s said in or around Harley’s presence the last few days. </p><p>Harley stops after she throws her suitcase on the bed and unzips it, stepping a little into Pamela’s personal space. “You said you wished you could see me. Here I am,” Harley answers quietly. </p><p><em> Goddamnit </em>.</p><p>“Did you mean what you said about the journal article?” Pamela’s thick tongue decides to ask. </p><p>“No!” Harley hisses and leans closer. “But I had to tell him something so I could weasel my way onto this trip. I very well couldn’t preface coming here with ‘hey, I know my department is only loosely attached to this grant, but I’d like to go along because this gorgeous redhead and I have been talking for months and I can’t go any longer without seeing her.’ Now that wouldn’t have worked.”</p><p>It’s like she’s in a fucking Disney movie and some octopus woman has stolen her voice and looped it around her neck for all eternity because she can’t squeak out a word in response to what Harley’s just said. </p><p>Harley puts a hand to her cheek. Her skin is so warm, Pamela almost melts. “So can we just have a nice time and enjoy seeing one another in person before I have to suffer another nine hour plane ride back with that guy?” She lets go of Pamela’s face and hooks a finger in the direction of his room. </p><p>She watches Harley throw open the door with more gusto than she’s ever seen the woman have, the quiet reserve giving way to a slightly chaotic edge. It’s probably nothing, her own way of dealing with a tedious plane ride. </p><p>Pamela follows her into the kitchen. Watches as she opens up cabinets and drawers. “I should do something for you. You’re the one that’s had a tiring trip.”</p><p>“It’s fine. My body sort of processes exhaustion in a different way. Instead of crashing, I tend to get a lot of wiry energy,” Harley shrugs. </p><p>The woman puts a pan of water on to boil, a little olive oil in a smaller skillet. By the time she’s done chopping up tomatoes and adding some garlic, she’s piling steaming tendrils of it onto a plate. Pamela drags out the last of the salad she’d put together the day before and pours them each a glass of white wine. </p><p>“What, no candles?” Harley teases as they sit across from one another. </p><p>“They take on a different meaning when you’re in the middle of the wilderness,” Pamela goads back, halfway thinks she feels Harley’s knees brush lightly against her own under the table. </p><p><em> If you’re getting turned on by this, maybe you do need your head examined. </em> That’s what one side of her brain says anyway. The other reminds her again just how long it’s been since she’s done anything nice for herself, let alone nice <em> and </em> with someone else.</p><p>As they eat, the back and forth only helps to solidify what Pamela’s suspected all along. She likes this person, uncharacteristically so. </p><p>Harley is warm and funny and witty all at the same time and maybe in a different world or a different life, Pamela could entertain the idea of dedicating the time to her as she deserves. </p><p>But in another room not far away, there’s a man here to debunk or tear apart or metaphorically shit on her life’s work and that takes precedence over anything else. As if he can feel his essence being thought about, Napier emerges from the room at ten til three and waves Pamela to the lab. </p><p>She doesn’t leave before addressing Harley. “I…”</p><p>“Hey, it’s fine. I may trade-off and get in a quick nap. Just find me later, okay?” Harley nods. </p><p>“Yeah, sure.”</p><p>She spends the next three agonizing hours showing him every data log, plant specimen, and procedure he asks for. It’s downright baffling the level of interest he takes for a simple committee chair. Even Kord hadn’t been this thorough so when they both leave the lab, she’s past the point of being cordial to him. </p><p>“Tomorrow, I want to see specimens' response to weather-based stimuli but with the altered gene profile,” Napier mentions offhandedly. </p><p>“We already did those…”</p><p>“We’re doing them again.” It’s said in a way not meant for debate. </p><p>“Why? To what end? I’ve shown you my research is sound. That not only can they withstand the elements but in other scenarios, they should be able to even regenerate almost immediately,” Pamela gripes. </p><p>“And that’s key, isn’t it? The regeneration properties.” Napier leans close despite barely being able to stand her hand on his shoulder mere hours before. </p><p>“Am I missing something?” </p><p>He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “I suppose now is the time to make you privy to the addendum of your grant, the little tidbit we left out until we knew your experiments would be successful.”</p><p>A hard lance of apprehension washes through her. Now it’s her turn to narrow her eyes. “Which is what?”</p><p>He rounds the lab table and perched on a stool, crossing his legs regally and folding his hands together. “Kord is an idealist, a visionary. Brilliant, yes, if not sometimes to a fault.”</p><p>Pamela has met the man, has discussed and answered question after inquiry after pondering. “Where is this going, Mr. Napier?”</p><p>He removes an envelope from his pocket and reaches in, withdrawing the contents and holding them out for her. She takes them and sees the sketches, the prototypes for some type of armor. </p><p>“For the heroes of this world,” Napier says by way of explanation. “Mr. Kord is not a weapons man like Mr. Wayne, more of a hand to hand kind of guy. Due to that reason, he’s looking to engineer a special type of armor, one that can withstand the elements—fire, freeze. One that could regenerate, one that could heal itself.”</p><p>“Living armor,” Pamela reels.</p><p>“In a sense, yes.”</p><p>“This is no ‘in a sense’! This is an absolute. What’s to say my work wouldn’t then be bastardized once it gets back to the committee, to Kord, and turned into something far more sinister.” She glares at him. “If it can be done to armor, the implication is for an even grander scale than that someday.”</p><p>“Essentially, the complete hybridization of two distinctly different types of tissue. Of two separate genetic codes binding together to form something new,” his look is feral. </p><p>“Metahumanity,” Pamela murmurs thickly. Sweat beads her temples. </p><p>“No need to look so distraught, Ms. Isley. After all, you’re on the burgeoning edge of this type of science, am I right? What we are discussing is many years down the road, if ever. Right now, Kord just wants a way to meet the shadows with a little bit of light.”</p><p>The thing of it is, the only missing element to the regeneration theory he’s proposing is human testing. A result Pamela is almost sure her calculations would yield. She’s not been bold enough to try it on human cells but just knows…</p><p>“We cannot play gods,” Pamela warns. </p><p>“Why not, even when there are so many devils walking the earth? Whose presence we may never sense until we’ve fallen into their pits.” </p><p>It’s hard to think anything other than he’s referring to himself. But yet, he’s a liaison to Kord. Works for the university<em> . A perfect spot to be in and covered in wool. </em> She watches him, the flickers on his face. <em> I need to talk to Harley.  </em></p><p>“This isn’t a choice, Ms. Isley. You will develop the regenerative armor for Kord. You will be stuck here without a soul to be near you until you do,” Napier says coldly. </p><p>Pamela knows she’s between a rock and a hard place. She’s standing over a cliff with jagged boulders at the bottom. Something dangerous. Something she has to continue to stand on unless she risks the fall. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Avoidances and Almosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harley makes a move, Pam doesn't panic, things heat up!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s dusk when he finally leaves her lab. She can’t make her feet move though. She continues to stare out into space well past the dinner hour and forgoes a meal with Harley because she just knows he will be there too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flicking on the lights of her lab table and specimen area, she begins to catalog the various plants from her walks in the surrounding forest. She’s kept a journal of them, comes back to it as a hobby when she’s not knee-deep in grant work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela’s been at it for a couple of hours when she hears the soft click of the door to the lab shutting. Glancing up from the frames of her glasses, she watches Harley cross to where she is, tight workout pants covering her lower half and a loose-fitting gray athletic shirt hanging down to her hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles and Pamela tries not to feel guilty about staying in the lab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see you for ten minutes and then not at all for the rest of the day,” Harley crosses her arms and leans against the counter nearest Pamela. The muscles in her forearms ripple a little and Pamela follows the delicate blue veins in her pale and strong hands. “You’re kinda making a lady regret flying 4,000 miles for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela groans and hides her face in her palms. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, the words blocked by her hands. “What can I do to make it up to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could think of a few things,” Harley throws out offhandedly and raises an eyebrow. She turns then to face Pamela. “Tonight, tell me a little about your work. Help me understand it. Tomorrow, I’ll settle for a tour of the area. We can throw some coats on and you can show me your plants in the wild.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela’s shoulder sag. Such a small thing to ask for, considering she has been terribly bad at being welcoming. “Yes, of course.” Suddenly, explaining what she does after hours of talking about it already doesn’t seem daunting. In fact, she’s excited to share with Harley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rising from her stool, she motions Harley over to her specimen table. She points to several plants, their labels. “Some of these are native to the area,” she picks out each one. “Some are just fun to grow during the winter months since they don’t require a lot of light or water.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela notices how closely Harley follows behind, almost touching but not quite. She looks over her shoulder to the woman and then quickly back with a smile forming on her face as she touches the pink bloom. “Amaryllis. The flowers usually take six to eight weeks to appear. But they can be very cheery in a place like this where things can be a bit bleak sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley steps up to the table and squats down a little to look at it. “It’s beautiful, Red.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s that name again, falling from Harley’s lips. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>geez</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Pamela can’t help but stare as Harley reaches out a finger and runs it along a blush-colored petal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it is,” Pamela agrees. Not at all talking about the flower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley stands again. “Alright, what else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, cape primroses are good this time of year as well. Oxalis here,” Pamela gestures to the different ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how does all this tie into your research?” Harley leans against the long table, fixing Pamela with a curious look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This? Oh, well. It doesn’t. Not really. I just wanted some bit of happiness here. These lighten my mood. As for my research, it’s deeper than just growing and nurturing and as of today, a lot more complicated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you didn’t come to dinner, I was forced to eat with him you know,” Harley watches Pamela intently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela tries to school the emotions rushing to break on her face. “How did that go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley crosses her arms over her chest and sticks her legs out a little farther. She shrugs. “I could see where he would rub people the wrong way. But like most, it’s all a matter of perspective, I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t help it. Pamela snorts. Harley’s eyebrows shoot to the sky. “You’re joking, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We ate, we talked a little. The meal wasn’t altogether horrible,” Harley says nonchalantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is annoyingly demanding and I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him,” Pamela lets venom lace her words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve told you that you’re beyond intelligent. What you’re doing here is important. Don’t let that guy make anything off of you. You’re incredible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela bites the inside of her cheek, sighs. She doesn’t know how to internalize Harley’s words so she does what she’s supposed to—shows she’s grateful. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks down at her feet as she says it though, but glances back up when she feels Harley almost against her. They could be touching if Harley or she closed the gap. Instead, they dangle precariously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should probably head to bed. You’ve got a long day ahead of you, I know,” Harley says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela doesn’t miss the glance she chances at her lips. Her cheeks develop heat. “Yeah, another pair of entertaining pants to wear.” She tries for a joke but it falls a little flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley brushes some strands of hair away from Pamela’s ear, leaning in to talk against it. “You’d look beautiful in absolutely everything.” A beat. “And probably nothing too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Pamela can get a word out, Harley presses a kiss into her cheek and makes a hasty retreat toward the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lab sits silently again, save for Pamela’s own ragged breathing. What’s happening? And moreover, can she avoid the building tension any longer? If the indicator between her legs means anything, it’s likely not long at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>****************</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Harley walks into the kitchen at eight, Pamela has already been up for three hours. The three cups of coffee have taken off some of the jitters from promising Harley they would go for a walk around the area. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mostly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t help the creeping red to her cheeks, how she’d had to do something about the incessant throb down low after their meeting in the lab, so she ducks her head as Harley grabs a glass of orange juice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To her credit, Harley doesn’t seem at all bothered by the previous night. In fact, she doesn’t mention it as she plops onto a stool and spins the drink around on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The more time Pamela is around her, the more of a conundrum Harley becomes. Like there are two versions of her that live below the surface: one that is composed, poised, precise. The other is jaunty and carefree and unabashed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her combat boots are untied and her black leggings are stuffed down into them. She’s wearing a red and gray striped sweater, one Pamela wants to make a joke about Waldo in regards to, but she doesn’t. Because Harley looks freaking adorable in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still up for a walk in the woods today?” She finishes up the piece of toast she’s been working on and fetches butter and jam, sliding all of it across the bar counter to Harley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blonde’s eyes widen. “For me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So gourmet, I know,” Pamela smiles into her coffee. “Give me a Michelin star.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so? Well then you’ve just earned yourself dinner duty,” Harley grins and Pamela rolls her eyes but agrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the door, they pull on their coats and Harley reaches for Pamela’s green beanie hanging on the rack. Instead of handing it to her, she steps in and gently works it onto her head, adjusting the long locks of her hair once it’s on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Harley can stuff her own red one atop the straw-colored hair on her head, Pamela snatches it from her gloved fingers and holds it away when Harley lunges. After a fake pout, she relents and Pamela deposits it on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They move outside and go down the stairs, moving toward the back of the house where Pamela keeps the firewood. There’s a small path she managed to etch out in her own mind through the woods there. Feeling bold, she reaches for Harley’s gloved hand as they reach the tree line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls her into it, the milky light of the sun barely making it through the canopy of the trees. Harley takes a few steps to where they are walking in stride with one another, hands still connected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a while since Pamela has felt this, some version of happy. But with Harley’s grip in her own and the quiet beauty of the surrounding forest, she feels something bordering on giddiness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Birch is the predominant species around here,” Pamela motions up to the towering trees. “Spruce and aspen also grow throughout. All of them you see are able to withstand the sometimes brutal conditions they experience here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The high wears off a little when she looks over and sees Harley’s introspective face. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley waves her off. “It’s just something you said that reminded me of...hey, let’s not get into it, alright? I told you I wanted you to teach me all about the plants and show me what that big brain of yours knows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela isn’t convinced. Her features pinch and she brings a gloved hand to Harley’s pinking cheek. “I promise, it’s nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your face says otherwise,” Pamela chides. Harley rolls her eyes and sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I was going through my clinicals, I got assigned to some pretty bleak places. I saw the worst of people, what they’re capable of. What they can become. The brutal conditions they go through, that they somehow endure,” Harley’s face goes solemn. “What I have too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela isn’t sure what to do with the frankness of what Harley has divulged. They’ve not talked about their pasts much, this part that Harley is referring to not at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can tell me anything, you know,” she tells Harley, wants her to know it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can, can’t I?” Harley looks up, catches a snowflake on her finger. Holds it up to eye level. “Did you know these actually evolve as they journey through the air? No two are alike because they all take different paths, go through different levels of humidity and vapor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley is deflecting, Pamela knows and the flake she’d caught is probably long gone due to her body heat, but she keeps her finger even with both of their eyes. The intensity between them is almost palpable. Pamela tries not to think of the small droplet of water on Harley’s finger. About how she’d like to remove it with her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did actually know that, but it’s kind of nice to hear you talk about science stuff,” Pamela smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, ‘science stuff,’ huh? Just because we all don’t have a degree in botany and biochemistry doesn’t mean we didn’t have to sit through a lot of science classes,” Harley pokes Pamela in her side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So was there a point to your expounding on the unique qualities of snowflakes or were you just making conversation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I wanted you to be impressed with my scientific acumen as well as my innate skills to be a conversationalist,” Harley shrugs. Her face goes serious then. “But if I’m being honest, talkin’ is about the last thing I want to do right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley closes her eyes and begins to lean in and Pamela thinks she might combust from the idea of feeling Harley’s lips on hers. Just as Pamela closes her own eyes and feels Harley’s breath against hers, they jump when Harley’s cell phone rings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela has a hand threaded through the blonde locks at Harley’s shoulder and she lets them go as her lips dodge the others, left temple resting against Harley’s. “How on earth did you get service?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley pulls away and gives her a withering look. “It’s Jack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why the fuck is he calling your phone?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I gave him my number,” Harley mutters and punches the accept button, walking away from Pamela a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who stands reeling. Weren’t they just about to kiss? And not one Pamela had necessarily initiated, but why is Napier calling Harley? Moreover, why had Harley actually obliged him by answering?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are a thousand questions flooding her mind as Harley walks back. Suddenly, Pamela’s insides feel as cold as the day around them. “Hot date?” she feels herself bite off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something flits across Harley’s face but it’s gone just as quickly as it appears and she cocks her head to the side, raising an eyebrow and pursing her lips. “No, but you did. Something about tests or trials? I don’t know. Not my wheelhouse.” Her tone is clipped. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, you deserve this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Instead of acting like a scorned lover, Pam could try a bit harder to be a good friend. Because so what if Harley is interested in Jack in that way? It’s not like she’s laid any claim to Harley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or even been very reciprocal of any fucking thing Harley has given her the entire time they’ve been talking. Pamela suddenly feels very small and incredibly stupid. Especially since she knows her heart does those annoying little flip flops every single time Harley is around. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re going to lose her if you don’t start getting your shit together.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Which feels like a real threat. In the friend way, in another way she’s realizing she wants with stark clarity. They will never even begin if Pamela can’t get over herself. Even if she’s too scared to try, to learn what they could be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess we should head back then,” Pamela manages to say. The tension from earlier has been replaced by a different, more uncomfortable one though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Harley nods and begins back through the forest, Pamela finds it curious that a heart that can do a flip flop is also capable of bottoming out and falling to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>********************</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll start the process of growing the armor. I want reports every day on progress. Make sure you CC me in the email along with Mr. Kord and the rest of the grant committee,” Napier commands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela looks up from the lab table, still trying to find any way inside of her mind she can resist what’s happening. Sadly, she can’t. Not yet anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we can use the same idea from your research about how plants can adapt to withstand their surroundings, the armor protecting itself, healing and mending itself, then we can move forward in using those regenerative properties elsewhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like a bad dream she can’t wake up from, one she’s left tossing and turning in the sheets against, sweating and tangled. If only she could extricate herself, find some way to back away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A tree stops a bullet because of its depth, the layers of it. You fire a high velocity round into this, you shatter it. There’s no way it holds up,” Pamela tries to reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Napier leans over the counter, his palms flat against it. She looks at his short clipped nails, the long fingers. How they’ve probably never shown an ounce of compassion to someone in their entire life. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t want any part of this, Harley. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You also punch a hole into a Kevlar vest and it stays there. Right now, we’re looking for a way to improve what we already have. To make the hero's job a little bit easier to do.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He adjusts the tie on his collar with a pull. Pamela hadn’t missed the inflection on the word heroes either. Like it had almost physically hurt him to ground it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To make them infallible,” Pamela snipes back, leaning against the back of her chair, crossing her arms. She’s sure there’s something to be said for her body language. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The human condition makes that impossible,” he waves off, looking annoyed. “My job is to make sure you give them a way to fight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stalks off to the door but then turns around as if another thought has struck him. “You’ve got a few hours before dinner is ready. Miss Quinzel told me to extend the invitation, if you are so inclined. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can tell by every twist and turn of his face that he hopes she’s not so inclined, even though he’s ordering her around every second he’s in her presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s this, maybe it’s something deeper. Something way darker that has the words falling from her lips in a cheerier way than she feels them. About how she has every intention of sitting next to Harley and dominating her attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile she has is untamable as he walks out the door with a look of disgust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What has her actually working is some unspoken challenge to herself too, not that she’s got any desire to fulfill Napier’s requests. She needs to know she can do it. Whatever this crazy thing is he’s baiting her with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What draws her out in a delicious smell wafting from somewhere in the recesses of the house. Glancing at the clock, she sees the time and decides that’s enough for the evening. The rest, she can spend grating Napier’s nerves like he’s done incessantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s sitting at the table, waiting like a king to be served. He’s got a glass snifter sitting beside him and amber liquid swirling in the glass as he moves it around, taking a long sip as he watches Pamela enter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley’s at the stove again and Pamela can’t help the petty as shit part of her—the one that places a hand on the small of Harley’s back and they meet one another’s eyes. “Thank you for the meal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The daggers aren’t hard to feel being buried in her back. The look on Harley’s face is worth it though, the startled but full of wonder kind of face. She moves away before they can lock eyes for too long and pours them each a glass of wine, putting the glasses at each of their spots at the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smell is heavenly, a Thai red curry with vegetables, and Harley passes the food around as she eases them into something resembling an easy conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Midway through, Harley and Jack are laughing at something or another though and Pamela wanders off in her mind. They get along, something she’s not exactly envious of, but wary. But she doesn’t have the right to dictate who Harley interacts with so she makes a pact with herself to let it go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought dislodges and fizzles when she feels a firm hand high up on her thigh. She glances over, using her wine glass to hide her face a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley doesn’t even acknowledge where her hand is, still animatedly talking to Jack across the table who, if Pamela begrudgingly admits, looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because yeah, Harley has that effect on people. And even though Pamela knows she’s here for a job, is stranded for multiple more months here alone after Harley leaves, she gently places her hand a little closer to where it’s becoming apparent they would both like it to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley chokes on a bit of wine when Pamela does it, Jack narrowing his eyes a little in question but Harley doesn’t skip a beat. Her fingers curl and Pamela fights the urge to shiver. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Touches and Tonight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pam is on the brink of no longer resisting Harley's charms, the ladies flirt a bit more, and then make some important plans that will alter their relationship forever.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’d said quiet goodnights after the meal, a reluctant parting considering the intent of their hands. Jack was still lingering so their parting had to be said with looks and not words. </p><p>When Pamela had retreated to her room, it had been with the latent feelings of what had come up during dinner. Even though Harley’s eyes had been on Jack, her mind a split between the two, her hands were all Pamela’s. </p><p>It’s why she finds herself leaning against the door and not able to ignore the delicate curl in her belly, the pressing of it so much lower. </p><p>So she goes to her lascivious place for the second night in a row, the one that wants and desires. The answer to the growing problem between her legs is steps away, resting in the bedside drawer but she can’t chance Harley hearing the gentle yet still audible sound of it next door. Can’t chance placing it in and against herself without the risk of the woman next door knowing what she’s doing. </p><p>Pamela feels embarrassed as she steps out her clothes, lays down on her bed after throwing on a t-shirt and nothing else, and brings her hand against herself. </p><p>Everything floods—meeting Harley for the first time and noticing her bright eyes behind her black frames, the lilt attached to the curiosity that her tone almost always seems to have, the way she’d almost kissed her in the forest, her warm palm wrapping around her thigh. </p><p>She’s insanely wet, fingers sliding through the slick, and she’s bucking her hips off of the bed with each swipe of her fingers. Her nipples are hard against the fabric of her shirt and if she doesn’t slow this down, she’s going to be tumbling downhill quicker than she’d like. </p><p>But there’s so much she wants, so much she has only been vaguely aware of her body needing. So much that she doesn’t know how to ask for at all. </p><p>Would Harley be sensual, slow? Would she treat Pamela right underneath her fingertips and body? Would they come together with the same blistering intensity that seems to permeate any space they occupy together? Would they fling the sound of them against the walls and love the song, the art they could make with their bodies?</p><p><em> I’m fucking ridiculous</em>, Pamela thinks, but then she’s imagining similar touches from Harley like she received at dinner, the quiet stillness of it resting there. Thinking about what she looks like laid bare and Pamela just knows she’s as beautiful that way as she is all the time. She can’t help the guttural cry that tears at her throat. </p><p>With one hand over her mouth and one against herself, she comes in streaks of white-hot pleasure. Even though it’s sharp and nice, it’s still familiar and Pamela finds herself wishing for the unknown. </p><p>It’s not her own hand she exactly wanted tonight but for now, it will have to do. The contentment of it eventually settles her, the dream of something more lapping like soft water against her mind. </p><p>She doesn’t exactly know where Harley stands, but the current between them feels alive and ready to burst. </p><p>A smile curls her lips as she thinks of the woman next door, the one that might even be thinking of her too if the dinner meal is an indicator of Harley’s unspoken desires, the gradual manifestation of want. </p><p>Pamela rests herself against this thought, falls asleep to it. The hours until she can see those enchanting blue eyes, that beautiful essence that is Harleen Quinzel a little more bearable with her on the other side of the wall connecting their rooms. </p><p>Maybe she touches it, hoping Harley can <em> feel </em> it somehow, as she is pulled into slumber.</p><p>********************</p><p>When her eyes flutter open, the bedside clock reads just after seven. Already, she’s slept past her normal time, an alarm usually waiting to jolt her into wakefulness an hour before. </p><p>She rolls onto her back and throws her arms over her eyes, biting her lip. Not even five minutes into the waking world and the anticipation of what’s waiting when she leaves her bedroom is greater than the coinciding headache accompanying it. </p><p>Pulling on a pair of leggings and a sweater, Pamela exits and closes her door. The scent of coffee is wafting from down the hall in the kitchen, the aroma pulling her along. </p><p>She’s grinning like an idiot when she reaches the end of the hall but practically skids to a stop when she sees Harley standing out on the deck-like porch, a steaming cup of coffee between her hands and the tendrils curling to her cheeks. Beside her with a bile inducing grin is Napier, his forearms leaning against the railing of the porch overlooking the perimeter of the house. </p><p>Harley is standing erect and she can make out very little of the muffled chatter through the glass of the windows and door to outside. </p><p>Feeling like she’s walked into something she wants no part of, she wills her feet to move into the kitchen to alert them to her being awake. Stubbornly, her feet stay rooted to the wooden floor. </p><p><em> Move. Walk away. </em> It’s all she can tell herself, a broken record on repeat. Especially when Napier stands upright, sets his coffee cup on the railing, leans in a little closer to Harley. </p><p><em> Pamela, </em> do <em> something. </em>Because Napier is so damn close to Harley and can’t she see the intent in his body, the pure control in his eyes? Like he’s so fucking confident that he’s going to get exactly what he wants (kissing Harley) because he’s got a domineering demeanor and a sly way to him that has many bending to his will. </p><p>Before their lips touch, something finally releases Pamela from the gridlock of her knees and feet, launching herself in the direction of the one place she knows to go when the world is falling apart: her lab. </p><p>Sloshing an overfilled cup with brew, she beats a hasty retreat, practically throwing the coffee pot back onto the hot plate in the maker. (Who doesn’t have a fucking Keurig these days? This place. And would it really be too much of an inconvenience for k-cups instead? <em> Fuck</em>.) </p><p>She gets too wrapped up in the coffee delivery system, anything to take her mind off the fact that Napier just kissed Harley. That Harley kissed <em> him</em>. </p><p>The hormones must be raging because by the time she closes the door to the lab, Pamela’s cheeks are wet with tears. Had she been wrong about Harley? Had she misread the cues completely?</p><p>Was Harley’s presence here just because she was lonely too? Was it a way to get closer to Napier, a guise of saying she was studying Pamela? Had the remarks Harley had pressed between them only been in jest? Had the almost kiss in the forest really just been a hug? Was the hand at dinner on her thigh innocuous, no weight of anything more?</p><p>She’s second, third, and quadruple guessed herself by the time lunch rolls around. Her stomach feels queasy and her head hot, so she ducks her head and mumbles a “feeling out of sorts” to both Napier and Harley as she breezes by them to her room. </p><p>It would be lovely to melt and evaporate into nothingness or slip into a void because she feels like doing nothing and seeing no one anymore. So of course, Harley gives her all of five minutes to get a hold of herself before she’s knocking on the door with a “let me in” command firmly on the other side. </p><p>“I’m not exactly feeling up to company right now,” she grounds out as she flings open the door and walks away, all but flopping onto her bed afterward. </p><p>The door slams harshly and Pamela is being pulled up to face a very angry Harley. “You know, I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, but you’re really starting to strap on to that misanthropic lifestyle.” </p><p>“Put it in your book or journal article. Blame it on my months of human isolation,” Pamela shrugs. </p><p>“No, don’t pull this. You get all petulant and grumpy from one thing and one thing only that I’ve been able to tell. And he hasn’t uttered a word to you at all today,” Harley shoots back. </p><p>“Maybe he’s already expended all of his utterings— and a lot more today—with someone else.” So much for thinly veiled. Pamela goes for the semi-direct approach. </p><p>“I told you, it’s all about perspective with that guy, yet not once have you stopped to ask me mine about him. You seem hell-bent on doing that yourself without so much as a hint from me.”</p><p>Pamela feels her nerves hot wired in her body, a buzzing in her ears. She’s mad and hurt and incredibly turned on all the time whenever Harley is around and can she not muster one ounce of fucking decorum to herself anymore?</p><p>Darkly, she thinks of telling Harley this. Wants to rid the remnants of her kiss with Napier from her lips with hot breath vaporizing the parts of him left behind. To tell her thickly <em> don’t you know what I could do to you? Do you want to know how many times I’ve had to stop myself from touching you and wound up touching myself instead, all because of you? How I’m pretty sure I could take you apart with my hand and my mouth and anything you’d let me try because I’m that deep inside this idea of you and I together.  </em></p><p>“So I take it my assessment of your interest in him is purely fictional then?” Pamela shrugs and sits on the end of the bed, offering her palms up. “As was the kiss he was leaning in to give you before I walked into my lab this morning.”</p><p>Harley’s face stretches into a grin and she holds up a finger. “See, that right there? You’re brilliant, Pam, but you’re wrong here.” She sits down, thigh and hip brushing against Pamela’s. She’s staring at Pamela’s lips again, her blue eyes bright with a flicker of mischief. She tilts her head. “He didn’t kiss me this morning.”</p><p>“But he tried…”’ Pamela adds. </p><p>Harley screws up her face in a disagreeing expression. “Well, he might think he did. But it was just a rather pathetic attempt to be smooth when all he wound up being was idiotic. Besides…” she leans in close, so damn close <em> again </em>. “The only person I’m interested in kissing is you, Red.”</p><p>To say Ivy is stunned is an understatement. Where’s the dancing around it, the innuendo? Don’t they just tease at this? But Harley is being direct and Pamela suddenly doesn’t know what to do with this information now that the dominance has ebbed from her own body. </p><p>“You don’t mean that,” Pamela mumbles. </p><p>Harley scoots impossibly closer. “I do.”</p><p>And then Pamela bolts, swoops out of the closeness of their bodies, and stands. She begins to pace, trying to ignore the downright hurt passing across Harley’s features.</p><p>
  <em> Fix this, fix it now! </em>
</p><p>“I want you to stay the night with me,” she blurts all of a sudden, the words coming out as soon as the idea is born. </p><p>“Wait, what? Fifteen seconds ago, I’m trying to kiss you. Ten seconds ago, you ran away. Now you’re asking me to stay in your bed?” Harley looks like she’s got a severe case of whiplash. Pamela doesn’t blame her. </p><p>“I’ve screwed up every single second you’ve been here, but I want you with me tonight. I want to lay beside you and fall asleep to you,” Pamela admits, watches as Harley stands and reaches out a hand to stop her pacing. She can’t face rejection so she hedges her bets a little. “So, yes?”</p><p>She doesn’t miss the hopeful tinge to her own voice. </p><p>Harley rolls her eyes. “Now we are getting somewhere.” She cups Pamela’s cheek. “Of course. Absolutely.” An incandescent smile spreads across her lips. </p><p>“After we all go our separate ways from dinner tonight, you can bring some things over and just...make yourself comfortable,” Pamela tries to gain control of her bouncing thoughts. </p><p>She honestly does want to just lay beside Harley and fall asleep to her too, but there’s the nagging part of her mind that wants more. That wants to shatter the bubbles they have kept up out of tension. </p><p>Pamela wants everything of Harley but this seems as good a jumping-off point as any. Especially since she hasn’t even gathered the courage to actually kiss her when there have been several opportunities that she’s squandered. </p><p>
  <em> Tonight, I will though.  </em>
</p><p>She’s not sure how smart it is to plan for a first kiss in a bed but it’s what she feels like she can press against the boundary of, the line to something more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter? It's a go!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Finally Fruition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is it, folks. What you’ve all been waiting for. The moment the slow burn turns to just burn.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It snows that afternoon, big heavy wafting flakes that swirl down from the sky. Outside is a winter wonderland and Pamela has never been more glad she chopped enough wood for the stove before the storm hit. </p><p>She stands with a cup of hot tea, watching the scene for a little while when she feels a hand on the small of her back and a nose pressing into her shoulder blades. She stiffens at the contact, too caught up in the sensation to turn around even though she already knows who it is. </p><p>“Relax, Pam,” her voice soothes. “He’s nowhere around at the moment.” And did Harley just place a wispy kiss on the top of her spine? Surely she’s imagining it. </p><p>“Can’t we just skip dinner and go to the part where you’re bunking with me tonight?” Pamela finds the courage to say, sighing heavily and pushing back into Harley’s touch a little. </p><p>It does nothing but spur Harley on, something Pamela is grateful for in the long run. Since it seems she can only get small ounces of boldness before they evaporate away. </p><p>Harley spins her around to face her, putting the cup on a nearby end table. “I want to kiss you so bad right now.” </p><p>The frankness of it shoots right to Pamela’s core. It gets worse when Harley brushes her nose against hers, closes her eyes and stutters out breath. It’s so hard not to touch her like she wants. Pamela ghosts a hand along her arm, the movement causing a slight tickle.</p><p>A smile blooms. She does her own kind of wisping. </p><p>“Mmm, that sounds wonderful.” It’s a good type of idea to indulge in for a little while.</p><p>“Hard to make out with you when we either get interrupted or you stay hidden,” Harley purses her lips and then fixes Pamela with a goading look. </p><p>“Alright, that’s on me. What was your assessment again?”</p><p>They both say it together. “Classic misanthrope who was totally fine getting away from humanity for six months.”</p><p>Laughs from them fill the space between their bodies, so close but not touching. Even though it’s all Pamela can imagine doing. So she says it. “I’m thinking there may be one human in particular who I want to know a lot more.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Harley plays coy. Brings a hand to rest of Pamela’s hip. “Who might that be, Red?”</p><p>The moniker, Pamela realizes, <em> does </em> things to her. The handful of times she’s heard it, it’s done nothing but send an electric jolt throughout her body. Now is no different. </p><p>“You make it very hard to resist you, you know.”</p><p>“Is that something you’re trying to do, resist me? Because, in all honesty, I’ve never had to work this hard to get what I want. But I’ve never <em> wanted </em> to work this hard either.”</p><p>She’d like to tell Harley that her effort can pay off tonight, but that gets shot to hell when they both jump back a little at the sound of a door closing and footsteps.</p><p>To her credit, Harley backs a reasonable distance away, going back to looking friendly instead of in search of more romantic pursuits. Pamela, on the other hand, is really tired of getting blocked from making any meaningful progress. </p><p>Especially when she feels on the brink of it. Running a hand through her hair and letting out a too loud sigh, Harley offers her a sympathetic face before retreating to the kitchen to make her a hot beverage. </p><p>When Napier snaps “Lab, now Isley” she almost tells him to fuck off but manages to grit her teeth through it when Harley offers her a tight head shake at her bubbling anger. </p><p>
  <em> Way to back me down there, Harls.  </em>
</p><p>It’s then that she realizes what she’s done. She’s inadvertently done her own naming, morphing Harley into her version. Just like Harley has done. </p><p>It’s those pesky butterflies flitting around again then. It’s having to hide a smile that never tarries too far whenever Harley is physically or mentally present. It’s a happiness Pamela is learning that she wants to keep forever. </p><p>In the end, Pamela stalks off behind Napier. She doesn’t want to give him what he wants. But then if she does, that takes his attention off of Harley, someone Pamela knows she wants to herself 100% by now. </p><p>The part that she wants to have all for herself, selfishly. And the quicker that she gets this over with, the quicker she can get back to spending time with Harley, the thing she’s not done much of at all since they arrived three days ago. </p><p>No matter what he requests, she can 100% deal with it because tonight is looming. And that is already greater, already more than anything. She can put up with whatever Jack throws at her.</p><p>********************</p><p>As it turns out, it’s his usual clipped tone barking out orders and having Pamela go through the same trials and experiments she’s not done what feels like a hundred times already.</p><p>But she gets through it because when she bids him goodnight wearily, she actually feels the opposite. That’s because she knows Harley is waiting for her in her room, has gotten a text to let her know. </p><p>Quietly she enters her room and probably moves a lot slower, hangs on a little longer to the door before moving away from it after it’s closed.</p><p>When she does, Harley is sitting on the edge of Pamela’s bed, her blonde hair down and spilling across her shoulders, her black framed glasses sitting on her face. She’s got on an oversized shirt that goes down to mid thigh, a Gotham U one that looks like it’s seen a lot of love. Like it’s her favorite. </p><p>She watches Harley fidget and then stand, sort of wringing her hands. Finally, she stops and brings one of them to the back of her neck and tilts her head. “Hope you didn’t mind that I already got ready for bed. I just didn’t want to be forward and pick a side.” She motions to the bed again. </p><p>Pamela’s lips quirk. “I tend to gravitate toward the left.” She points. </p><p>Harley nods and then walks a little bit closer too, almost like she’s afraid of a rebuff. Pamela has no compunctions to do that though. She lets Harley touch her hip and brush her fingers across her cheek. </p><p>Because of those touches and because of screwing up repeatedly and on end, on end, on end, Pamela leans forward and finally, <em> finally</em>, kisses Harley like she’s wanted to do since she walked out of her office that first time. </p><p>It’s the most intense connection she’s ever felt with another human, period. Most first kisses are stumbled through, messy, but when Harley meets her halfway, it’s like they’ve been doing this all along. Like they were made for it, to move against one another’s lips.</p><p>Pamela intentionally keeps her pace slow, works to make sure they don’t hit overdrive before the night really gets going. She doesn’t want to spin their tires and burnout at the very start. That’s why she wills herself away, places one featherlight kiss on the corner of Harley’s lips before parting. </p><p>“I’m going to get ready for bed. Meet me there?” she asks. She already knows the answer though. Harley grins against her and skips away, almost leaping onto the bed like a gymnast. </p><p>Her mood is infectious and Pamela finds herself speeding through her nighttime routine despite the need to be meticulous too. When she walks out of the bathroom, Harley already has the lights off, only the faint glow of a nighttime one making anything visible. </p><p>She slides into bed beside Harley, feels the warmth radiating off to the right. Pamela doesn’t want to force herself on Harley, but she also knows that they’re laying on the outside of the inevitable. Even so, she is still nervous as hell considering she wants Harley more than anything. </p><p>Rolling over, she sucks in a little breath as Harley turns too. The feeling of having someone pressing into her is foreign, but Harley feels like everything good that people try to gain purchase of in their lives. The thought makes her wiggle closer, become impossibly warmer. </p><p>When Harley moves, she bends to capture Pamela’s lips and they spend stretched out minutes exploring each other’s mouths. There’s the unhurried push and pull of their lips lazily gliding and grating across one another. </p><p>If Pamela’s eyes weren’t already closed, she’s sure that they would flutter shut. Between being this close to Harley and the cozy comfort of them pressed together, in addition to her dealings with Napier earlier, she suddenly feels herself drifting away. </p><p>“I’m boring you, am I?” Harley grins and nips against Pamela’s cheek. </p><p>The slight feel of her teeth have Pamela’s eyes flying open and the tiredness washing away as if carried by waves. She trails a hand up the back of Harley’s thigh from her knee. </p><p>“Anything but,” Pamela finally answers throatily. She stops a safe distance away from caressing Harley’s shapely bottom. Knows that her fingers would feel at home on it if she’d just allow herself to touch. </p><p>It’s nerve racking to have Harley’s sturdy and lithe body laying this close beside her in a full bed. But somehow, she manages to calm her breathing and finds a grounding technique that works. </p><p>She can feel Harley pulling back a bit, coming to rest her face in the crook of Pamela’s neck. The rise and fall of her chest, the steadiness of her breathing, somehow lulls her even more with the expansive quietness of the room.</p><p>She’s not sure when she trips under into staring at the back of her eyes but suddenly, she’s asleep. That is, of course, until there’s a rather stirring sensation that seems a little too real to be a dream. </p><p>But it has to be because it feels nice and even though Pamela has these types of dreams sometimes, (she’s human after all) this one is just so <em> vivid </em>. So much so that she finds herself scrunching up her eyes tighter despite wakefulness tugging hard, wanting to stay inside of whatever’s happening just a little longer. </p><p>Below her ear. The side of her neck. The slope of her shoulder. The jut of her collarbone. The prickling in each place like a fingerprint has been laid on them, a marker of some kind. Faint, but wholly good. </p><p>She fidgets in her sleep a little, moves the covers around. The heaviness of her lids eventually raise and she scrapes together enough coherence before she sees a pair of lips lightly latch onto her nipple through the cotton of her oversized t-shirt. </p><p>Pamela gasps as her hands shoot out to the blonde hair close, <em> so damn close, </em> and pulls the strands upward. Harley is hovering over her then and Pamela can just make out the wet spot on her breast from where Harley’s lips have been.</p><p>Her hands are still in her hair when she gets out her raspy words. “Harley, what are you doing?”</p><p>She’s radiant bathed in the dim light of the room and she hides her face in the crook of Pamela’s neck after a few intense seconds. “I’m sorry to wake you but...I leave tomorrow evening to go back home.”</p><p>The words almost cleave Pamela into. She’s still got four months left in her stay and the idea of not seeing Harley for that long, if not more, feels insurmountable. Another sharp inhale sounds when Harley presses her mouth to Pamela’s neck again and withdraws. </p><p>“There’s so much I want to say to you, but I can’t find the words,” Harley looks down into her eyes. </p><p>Pamela shakes her head, lost in Harley’s never ending blue and the feel of her body on top of her. She has to bite her lip when Harley shifts and she can feel their bare legs radiating heat onto one another below their too large shirts. </p><p>“Why do I always feel like I’m on falling ground with you? Like I can never catch my footing, but I’ve never been more glad to descend,” she looks up into Harley’s breathtaking face. “I’ve got so much time left here but you make me feel like I want to throw that all away.”</p><p>“You can’t mean that. I don’t want that,” Harley runs the back of her fingers across Pamela’s cheek. Even the simplicity of the touch holds more than they’re speaking between them. </p><p>Pamela reaches for her then, mirrors Harley’s hand and what it had done against her. Harley leans into it and Pamela dips to take the threads of her blonde hair between her fingers. </p><p>“Harley, can I…I mean, is it okay if…”</p><p>“Red, I’ve been trying to get at you for the last twenty minutes,” Harley cuts her off with a huffing laugh. Pamela watches as she runs the pad of her pointer finger where her mouth had been minutes ago. </p><p>Pamela can’t help it. She gasps against the feel of Harley being pressed into her in another intimate way. It’s why she finds herself flexing her abdomen to lean up and wrap her hand around the back of Harley’s neck to pull her in for a kiss. </p><p>She’s surprised by how frantic Harley becomes, how her hands begin to wander the longer they kiss. It’s almost as if the practiced calm that Harley has to live in every day is an exercise in restraint. That maybe this is who she really is, all pushed out pants and frenzied hands as she claws at Pamela’s flesh. </p><p>Seeming to realize this, (Pamela doesn’t think she stalls out at the zeal to Harley’s touches) Harley backs away with shuddering puffs of breath and closes her eyes. “I should probably slow down, huh? I don’t exactly think you want me coming before we really touch.”</p><p>Pamela gulps, audibly. “Is that what we’re...you really want…”</p><p>What are sentences? Why can’t she form one? She’s 33 years old and can’t put together a coherent thought because there’s a pretty girl laying on top of her. </p><p><em> You’ve had sex, Pamela. </em> She chastises herself for the apprehension of most of her movements despite the flare of desire everywhere. Because now, her world exists where she gets to watch Harley come. Where she’s maybe the reason for it. </p><p>“I just want to be with you, Red,” Harley speaks into Pamela’s skin, uses her hand to pull back her shirt at the neck and nip at the flesh at her chest. She grazes up, whispering in her ear. “I’ve wanted it since that first phone call. Maybe even before. So, can I have tonight?”</p><p>“Okay,” Pamela reaches up to bring them together again, whispers more okay’s against Harley’s lips. </p><p>But Harley pulls away after a few moments of deep connectivity and shoves the fabric of Pamela’s t-shirt roughly upward, exposing her rounded breasts, the nipples beginning to harden as the air hits them. </p><p>She looks down between them, at the way Harley shoves her own shirt up then to expose her toned abs and the silk and lace of her red and black panties. With one hand, she keeps herself propped up and with the other, holds her shirt up so when she rotates her hips into Pamela’s own panty clad center, their skin can touch in the process. </p><p>At the first swivel, Pamela lunges up and grabs onto Harley’s face. “We have to be quiet,” she bites back her own moan. It dies a slow death in her throat. </p><p>Harley just nods vigorously and continues to push them together in thrusting swipes. With every rut of her hips, Pamela finds herself grasping the sheets tighter. </p><p>“Have you ever done this?” her voice sounds, even after she’s told Harley they need to hush. </p><p>“Done what?” Harley grinds upward again and then flicks her hair over her shoulder, leaning down to take Pamela’s nipple in her mouth. </p><p>“Holy shit,” Pamela lets out on a strangle. Her hands fist in Harley’s hair. “This, with a woman.” </p><p>It’s not eloquent, especially not for someone with a PhD, but she feels Harley smile against her breasts and dive back in. When she lets go with a wet pop, she brings her face even with Pamela’s and runs her nose along her cheek. </p><p>“Some things. A lot of things,” Harley shrugs. “But not everything. Not this.”</p><p>And then she’s gone, sliding south and all Pamela can do is look down between her breasts at Harley dragging her green panties down her legs and exposing everything below.</p><p>Using the sheet, Harley flicks it up and over them, creating a balloon in the air. She disappears under it and then Pamela is only left with sensation. </p><p>Harley wastes no time, doesn’t even act like the presence of the patch between Pamela’s freckled thighs is any big deal as she swipes up with the same type of movement her hips had done moments before. </p><p>Pamela supposes it’s good she can’t scrabble together a lot of thoughts at once. About what Harley has given to other women, what she’s taken from them. Of the misplaced jealousy Pamela feels bubbling in her chest at wanting Harley all to herself. </p><p>Harley meets the juncture of Pamela’s hips like it’s its own discovery. She roves with fingers, lips, and tongue and <em> fuck </em>, Pamela can’t see any of it because she’s moving below the sheet. </p><p>While part of it is hot, having to imagine what Harley looks like as she laps against her, the other part wants to unabashedly see it. Grabbing the sheets, she throws them off of their bodies. Harley doesn’t even let the flutter deter her from her task.  </p><p>She’s all hooded and then closed eyes, flushed cheeks and wild hair, and she’s working her lips and jaws into oblivion. </p><p><em> I’m going to die </em> is the last vestige of thought Pamela has before her world loses vision, before she’s crumbling from the talent of Harley.</p><p>There’s but a heartbeat of pause between the end of it and beginning again. She looks down with wide eyes in shock but then can’t help the way her own face changes through the continuing ministrations. </p><p>Harley may be beautiful sitting at her desk when they’re on the phone and exquisite with snow in her hair under a gray sky, but she’s downright perfect when perched between Pamela’s legs. </p><p>Pamela grips her harder, hangs on for the ride. Oh, how it’s a good one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Running From Research</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The aftermath of Harley and Pam's coupling and sh** hits the fan</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pamela is by no means old, but she’s feeling her years as the hours of dawn approach. Mostly because she hasn’t had much of a reprieve from the onslaught that is Harleen Quinzel. </p><p>At some point, she’d had to leave the warmth of Harley’s body to freshen up. Had stared into the mirror at her disheveled red hair and splotched skin in a number of places with a grin tugging on her lips. </p><p>Before Pamela knows it though, she feels arms encircle her waist, sees the pale hands wrapping, and feels the ghosting of her lips back on her skin.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Harley apologizes, running her hands down between Pamela's legs, the sticky wetness there still and she’s so embarrassingly ready after all of the flurries and lulls of activity. “I just know that when we have to leave your room, I can’t touch you again.”</p><p>Neither one of them says anything about the waning hours they have left. Harley leaves tomorrow. </p><p>Pamela hears the ache in her words because she feels it acutely too. She and Harley will have to pretend that they haven’t spent every waking hour together since they should have gone to bed. Pretend they don’t know touch and taste and sound and sight. </p><p>It’s all melancholic to think about, so she spins in Harley’s arms, dips to lift her on the counter of the sink, and begins to unravel her with the skill of her hands. The more she does, the more she can’t hold back the things she says. </p><p>“I don’t want you to leave,” Pamela admits and bites into Harley’s pale shoulder. Not enough to leave a mark but enough to be a good memory<em> .  </em></p><p><em> I don’t ever want to be without you again </em>wells up improbably too. Thankfully, Harley cuts her off before she can say it. </p><p>“Four months is too damn long. And if there’s any more than that, I don’t know if I can make it,” Harley pants and moves against her, meets her all the way with every buck of her hips. </p><p>“We’ll just have to adapt, I guess,” Pamela pushes into her, rests her other hand not working inside Harley against the cool glass of the mirror. There will be fingerprints. She’ll look at them later and smile. </p><p>Harley leans back against it, pushes her chest out with her beautifully small but pert breasts getting nearer to Pamela’s face. She lacks the restraint to not take one into her mouth, to roll it between her lips and tongue. So she does. </p><p>“Adapt like…when I’m missing you, when I’m so desperate for your hands and your mouth, I call you and let you watch me touch myself while you tell me what to do?”</p><p>Pamela bites down hard, can’t help but moan against Harley’s skin at just the fucking <em> thought </em> of it. “Yeah, something like that,” she answers with a hoarse voice and feels Harley tighten against her fingers. </p><p>In the haze of it, in the glow of the after, she finally meets sleep. When she opens her eyes again, Harley is nowhere to be found and Pamela combs her fingers through the crumpled sheets and comforter, now empty on Harley’s side. </p><p>Lifting the covers, she finds that she’s still bare and when she shifts, there’s a delicious ache at her center. There’s a cheesy grin moving to her lips, so she rolls over onto her stomach and grabs Harley’s pillow, hugging it tightly and breathing in her lingering scent. </p><p>Quickly, she jumps into the shower and dresses, eager to see Harley again. As she’s pulling on her sweater, there’s a soft knock on the door and, as if manifesting out of thought, Harley walks through the door and crashes into Pamela’s mouth.</p><p>“I just wanted to warn you that he’s awake and in the kitchen,”’ Harley moans barely audible but Pamela feels the vibrations of it on Harley’s lips against her own.</p><p>They’re pawing at each other, a hop, skip, and jump away from dry humping. Harley has her hand snaking up Pamela’s shirt to cup her breast through her bra and Pamela is guiding Harley with her hands against each cheek, pulling her against a waiting knee. </p><p>“So how did you manage to sneak away?” Pamela asks. Especially if she’s meant to keep up the facade of not (now) knowing every intimate detail about Harley Quinzel. </p><p>Harley thrusts her hips against the proffered knee. “Said I was coming to get you for breakfast. Really, I wish we could just leave out the breakfast part and stick with the…”</p><p>“I got it, Harley,” Pamela assures and starts backing them toward the door. </p><p>Or moving them forward. In any regard, the end up heatedly presses against the door for a few scant seconds before reluctantly separating with huffing breaths and pinking cheeks. </p><p>“Get ahold of yourself,” Pamela chides playfully. “After all, you have to leave first.”</p><p>“And here I was thinking we could walk out together and not give a shit what he thinks.” Harley's voice is cool smugness.</p><p> “You’d break his heart before he even finishes a cup of coffee?” Pamela asks, raises an eyebrow. </p><p>Harley shrugs like it would be nothing to tell Napier. “I’m finding out that there’s a whole lot I’d do for you without a second thought. And also the exact opposite. Like if you told me that no one else is worth my time when I go back to Gotham because you…”</p><p>Harley trails off, looking sheepish. Like her throat can’t form the rest of what she’s asking. But she doesn’t have to. Pamela knows exactly what she’s searching for. Exactly what she wants to hear.</p><p>She’s only known Harley three months, but the thought of being without her, of her going back to Gotham and finding someone else, or—heaven forbid, <em> him </em>—-makes her burn in ways she’s rarely felt in her entire life. </p><p>It’s hard to control the rumbling of what she feels, what she thinks might be forming with every second they’re together. Why she can feel simultaneously scorched and drenched whenever she and Harley are near one another. Because even though she’s hardly even felt it, she knows what love growing feels like. Precisely like nothing else in the world. Precisely like this. </p><p>Harley’s face looks pensive, bordering on worried. Pamela staunches it with another pressing of her lips. Speaks words against them. </p><p>“I want you, Harley,” she says, palms the delicate curve of the woman’s hip. </p><p>It’s all-encompassing. That she wants Harley right now against this door and the way she wants to know that when she leaves, Harley will still be hers. And the fact that she wants to be the only one on the entire planet that can have Harley in every such way. </p><p>Harley slams them together with such a force, it takes Pamela’s breath away. Her lips are melded hard against her own and she is getting in a desperate state of agony, trying to fight to be just as much of a storm as Harley is. </p><p>Maybe Pamela hears “I’m yours,” maybe she imagines it because she wants it to be true. Whatever the case, she tries to let Harley feel the extent of her emotions through the moving of her hands, to unbend the blonde’s fingers, and place them against her heart. </p><p>Their eyes pierce, blue against green, and Harley kisses her hard again before pulling away just as quickly and exiting Pamela’s room. </p><p>She’s left gasping, heart thudding on overdrive in her chest. </p><p>******************</p><p>Breakfast is hard to make it through without touch, especially since their positions mirror the night before. Are an exact replica of when Pamela had pushed Harley’s hand near where she desperately wanted, where Harley made sure to meet her later in the night (over and over again).</p><p>She has to shift in her chair as Harley delivers eggs onto their plate and French toast coated in powdered sugar. It's a little too sweet for Pamela’s taste, but she eats it because Harley has a way of pushing her to do things she normally wouldn’t be doing. </p><p>This apparently includes getting some version of pleasure at the breakfast table as Harley sits down and immediately deposits her hand back on Pamela’s thigh, waiting a brief second or two before running her index finger over the crease of her leggings. </p><p>It’s a hard fight to not let her eyes close or roll back in her head and she shoots Harley a pointed look as the woman circles the epitome of pressure points on Pamela’s body. When Harley brings her thumb to the aid of her index finger to pinch her lightly through the fabric of her pants, Pamela shoots upward. </p><p>She stands with her palms flat on the table and the juice glasses rattling. Napier gives her a withering glance and she can see Harley hiding a feral little grin behind a hand covering her mouth. </p><p>“Uh, I was thinking we should get to the lab so I can show you the last of the work I’ve been doing that you requested. Before the two of you leave this afternoon,” Pamela has to will her voice to steady. </p><p>He rises without a word, throwing down his napkin on his mostly empty plate and grabbing his coffee mug before heading down the hall. Pamela waits until he enters the lab and leans down, stealing a quick kiss from Harley before fixing her with her green eyes. </p><p>“You’re lucky you’re so freaking gorgeous or I’d murder you right now,” Pamela tells her. </p><p>“I owe you another orgasm before I leave,” Harley says seriously. “After all, it’s the last one I can give you until you’re in my arms again in four months.” </p><p>She grabs Pamela again, yanking her closer for a kiss that Pamela can do nothing but growl against and tear herself away, heading off down the hall. She feels Harley’s eyes on her the whole way, runs her tongue over her lips to taste the remnants of syrup left by Harley’s mouth. </p><p>She’s still smiling when she walks through the door, running a finger over the phantom feel of it all when she glances up and sees Napier studying her carefully. </p><p>“What’s gotten into you? I don’t think I’ve seen you smile ever. You’re like some giddy school girl. What’s the cause?” Napier asks directly.</p><p>Her smile fades immediately. Her mouth doesn’t work, words don’t form. She mutely points at the specimen table nearest them, the armored chest plate growing a thick bark to it, vines twisting around it with even more padding. </p><p>Napier cocks his head to the side, narrows his eyes, and then points. “Go ahead. Put it on.”</p><p>“What?” Pamela splutters. </p><p>“I’d say it’s high time you show me exactly what it is you’ve discovered,” he shrugs nonchalantly. </p><p>She’s got to stall, to find a way to get her findings to Kord and the rest of the grant committee. She tries to play this card, only to have it batted away. </p><p>“Shouldn’t we send this back with you to Mr.Kord? I can make sure it survives your flight home.” She’s grasping at straws, anything to avoid what’s happening. </p><p>“If you must know, Ms. Isley, I have absolutely zero intention of making sure Kord gets any of this,” he admits as he looks down at the armored prototype. </p><p>“Wha...you gave this whole speech from atop your soapbox. You made me walk through every step along the way and send my reports to Gotham. Aren’t Kord and the University mostly up to date anyway?” </p><p>Pamela’s voice continues to rise. She’s just now piecing together the very screwed up picture occurring and she’s realizing too late what has really been at play the whole time. </p><p>
  <em> All because I’ve been preoccupied with Harley.  </em>
</p><p>But no, it’s unfair to blame any part of her lack of observation on Harley or categorizing the woman as a distraction. If anything, Harley has kept her grounded throughout this entire experience. This is just a case of something mutating as it grows. </p><p>“Gotham is a moral cesspool, Ms. Isley. Thanks to Ace Chemicals and a few other fine establishments, sometimes an actual one,” Napier stands up to his full height, throwing his shoulders back and clasping his hands behind his back. “Maybe it’s not so bad to be misanthropic, as Dr. Quinzel aptly put in your evaluation.”</p><p>Because of course he read it and memorized it. Because of course, he’d give Harley the thin scrap of respect and dignity while making sure to drop Pamela off the same cliff repeatedly.</p><p>“You’re sort of proving the point,” Pamela snipes back angrily. Since he’s displaying the absolute worst qualities of humanity. Embodying them too.</p><p>All this time, that incessant gnawing at her gut had been right. Jack Napier has been a snake in the grass, slithering between feet and latching onto heels. Places less likely to be noticed or hurt because of what they are. </p><p><em> To inject his poison and not a single soul could recognize it. </em> Not even Pamela herself. She feels the anger burn, liquid pitch in her body. She wants to destroy him completely. </p><p>“There’s an imbalance of power, not only Gotham but in every major city across the country. Even the smaller towns aren’t immune to it. These people…” he rolls his shoulders, pulls back his lips on his teeth as he says the words, “think they have figured out what we all need. That everyone needs saving from the darkness.”</p><p>His cold eyes turn to her then. Blazing, yet somehow still dead. Nothing behind them but a lack of light at all. He steps toward her, so close she can see the faint sallow to his eyes. </p><p>She’s so caught up in his proximity that she fails to notice him latching on the breastplate and sucks in a breath when he draws the gun. </p><p>“Let’s see if all of your hard work has paid off, Doctor.” He levels the gun with her chest and just as she sees his finger press against the metal trigger, noise shuffles into their ears. </p><p>The lock. </p><p>He’d thrown it before he entered, has tried to corner her here with her creation to use against her. The one he’s demanded she construct. The impenetrable one she watches in the lull growing to wrap around her body, the vines curling, and the bark hardening even more. </p><p>“Pam? Pam!” </p><p>There’s a hard shudder against the door and her head jerks to the sound. Her heart thunders in her chest as another violent slam shakes it on its hinges. Harley is trying to bust it down. Pamela turns back to Napier.</p><p>She fixes him with a look while trying to move imperceptibly to her work station, to the test tubes with the chemicals mixed in them. </p><p>“I’m not giving you shit anymore,” Pamela’s voice is ice. “I’m not turning over one single ounce of research that you could turn around and use on someone else.”</p><p>“But haven’t you already? While I lack the capacity to bring it to fruition, to create a metahuman, this life is a numbers game. For the right price, with the right motivation—” he lunges and grabs her face roughly with his hand, jerks her head to make her flinch. “Anyone can be persuaded.” </p><p>Three things happen at once: Pamela’s hand manages to snake behind her and grab a tube filled with acid as the gunshot goes off. Harley also manages to strip the door from the screws and hinges. </p><p>Right as Harley barrels through, she looks at Napier holding Pamela’s face harshly, his fingers turning white. They’re all looking down at the bullet wound in the armor, the greenery contorting and pushing the slug from its burrowed place. </p><p>As Harley’s face registers what Napier’s done, it turns dark. Angry. Furious. Napier seems flustered for Harley to have caught him even though he doesn’t remove his fingers and there’s no way a gunshot going off would have been muffled ever either. </p><p>Not like the illusion of his goodness hasn’t already been shattered to Harley, but he reacts that way and sneers. “Guess it works, Pammy. Good to know.” </p><p>Just as he makes to lunge for Harley, Pamela brings the test tube to smash against the side of his face. </p><p>He screams as Pamela hurdles toward the sink to open the tap full force to get it off of her own hand. Still, the skin turns red and melts. With no water on Napier’s, it does the same but at an advanced level. </p><p>His cheek is essentially eaten away by the time he whips his jacket off and holds it to the wound, the glinting of the barrel of his gun shimmering in the fluorescents of the lab. Just before he pulls the trigger again, Pamela notices the holes created by the acid drops on his shoulder and hands too. </p><p>As the gunshot goes off, Pamela is viciously yanked away and shoved to the ground behind the specimen table. Glass shatters and rains down on both hers and Harley’s head and they scamper toward the door on their hands and knees. </p><p>Another shot rings out and wood splinters as the slugs bury into the wall.</p><p>“Shit, shit, shit!” Harley cries as she tries to pull Pamela along.</p><p>They manage to burst through the front door and out into the cold November air. The only thing Pamela’s static-y brain can latch on to is to dive into the forest. It’s the only thing that might put them on equal footing against a gun.</p><p>Pamela knows the trees and plants and rocks like the back of her hand, at least 100 yards into the woods if not more, so she barrels ahead of Harley in the accumulating drifts of snow and grips her hand tightly as she drags her along. </p><p>When another shot goes off, even though it’s in the distance, Pamela shoves Harley behind a downed log, climbs on top of her, and presses their bodies together as they huddle for warmth and safety. </p><p>“Please tell me you have your phone,” she grounds out, well aware of how any other time she would be on top of the woman, it would hopefully be for a vastly different reason. “And please tell me it’s got fucking service.”</p><p>She feels Harley reach between them and extract her phone. She holds it up for Pamela to look at, the glaring <em> no service </em> the last thing either of them wants to see. </p><p>The plate between them is becoming increasingly uncomfortable even if it is made mostly of vines, so Pamela rolls off of the top of Harley and brings her hands to its surface, watching the life growing there respond to her touch. </p><p>There’s no sign of damage anywhere she can see. She can barely even feel the impact of where Napier had hit her point-blank with the bullet. She should be dead. Mercifully, she isn’t. </p><p>“Fucking hell,” she mutters, a little stunned by it still even though it was herself that created it. </p><p>Harley reaches out, eyes misty and bright. Her lips form an “o” as she grazes her fingers the place where the bullet hole should be. “You’re okay?”</p><p>Because she can’t resist it, because there has been a line drawn between the old Pamela who ran physically as well as emotionally from Harley, and the new one who can’t stop touching her at all, she leans in and presses their lips together. </p><p>It’s not a time to linger, especially not when another gunshot cracks in the air, this one much closer than the last. Pamela finds herself wanting to anyway, nerves calming despite the very real danger they could still be in. </p><p>“I’m fine,” she breathes against Harley’s lips. “But we might not be if we don’t come up with a plan quickly.”</p><p>“Are we going to graze over the fact that he fucking shot you?” Harley whispers severely and paws at Pamela’s face. </p><p>“No, but with your phone crapping out and our only defense as this,” she does a soft knock against the armor, “we’ve got to keep him occupied long enough to maybe get somewhere to shoot out a message for service.”</p><p>“So the most intense game of hide and go seek in our life? Got it,” Harley’s breath forms smoke clouds as she speaks. </p><p>Pamela grabs her with a thickly gloved hand, pressing their foreheads together. They both eat the smoke one another creates. Another shot rings out closer and Pamela makes Harley look her in the eyes. </p><p>“Don’t let go of me, no matter what,” she commands. </p><p>“What about the divide and conquer technique?” Harley asks confusedly. </p><p>“I know these woods better than anyone. Better than him. I’ll not lose you to either of them,” Pamela lunges forward and kisses Harley with all the emotion she can muster in her body. Another shot rings out and she backs away. “Come on. Let’s go.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Conflict and Confessions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The true nature of the armor is revealed and Pamela has some decisions to make when Harley drops a bit of big information on her.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Okay, she knows what she’d told Harley but it seemed like a better plan for her to scale the tree in wait than to throw Harley up into it. Not that she likes Harley being on the ground as bait essentially, but she knows that Napier won’t harm her. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least I hope he fucking won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The thought makes Pamela’s gut tighten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley is some yards away from where Pamela is perched, so she can’t see Napier approaching. His ridiculous purple coat is bunched up around his face...or what’s left of it. The day is gray but she can just make out the eaten away flesh of his jaw. The white bone exposed beneath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His slimy voice is chilling, worse so than the atmosphere around them. A hand goes up to fix Harley’s position with the gun pointed at her and Pamela hates herself again for agreeing to this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, Harley-girl, you can’t expect me to believe that sorry excuse for a human abandoned you to your own devices in the woods with a madman chasing after you, weapon in hand,” Pamela can practically hear the sneer from his tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God love her, Pamela sees Harley stiffen a little bit before huddling in on herself, letting her own menacing look contort her features. “Yeah, well, I guess she fooled us both, didn’t she? You lost half of your face and I look like a fool.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It shouldn’t make Pamela hurt, but it does. The way Harley is flicking on some switch to match Napier’s disgusted tone. She closes her eyes, but they shoot open as she feels something curl around her arm and slither down her wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She watches as a streak of green winds around her sleeve covered bicep, slithering across her appendage and creating swirls as it twists. It’s almost as if she can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> the armor responding to her body chemistry. Like they’re whispering to one another about how best to move forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she had even a second to gloat internally, to feel good that what she’s created is almost sentient, she would. If Pamela weren’t scared out of her wits for the gun pointed at Harley’s face, she would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So she brings us both up here to—what? Prove her genius and then send us both to her graves?” Napier sounds like he’s working through the possibility of it. Pamela knows otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you see, I think she could absolutely turn me into plant mulch and not have a second thought about it,” Napier shrugs but then his voice lowers, as cold as the atmosphere around him. “But since she’s made you her pretty little plaything, I doubt she has it in her to do the same to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley gasps, stunned, and Pamela shakes her head while biting the inside of her cheek. This is all her fault. She created the armor, she hadn’t protected Harley like she swore to in the beginning. She’s been too awestruck, too head over heels, and he’s zeroed in on it with startling clarity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you think…” Harley tries for determined confidence but even the beginnings of it feel shaky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would probably not do justice to what the two of you have been scheming,” he growls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Harley does find the boldness. “There’s no scheme. Sure, I didn’t come here to check up on her for work purposes. I came here as a friend, as a…” She stalls out and Pamela can see her cast her eyes to the tree. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, Harley. Don’t. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Harley-girl. Did you catch feelings for her? Are you...my god. Are you in love?” Napier asks incredulously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By this point, Pamela’s heart is thundering in her rib cage. There’s blood rushing to her ears. Harley looks up apologetically this time, her blue eyes anguished. She mouths </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> and just as Napier starts to turn to look up where Pamela is perched, Harley grabs the barrel of his gun and yanks it out of his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Harley admits in a breathy sigh. “I guess you could say I am.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, somehow, he manages to squeeze the trigger and the shot goes off. Pamela can’t see what happens other than Harley falling to the ground with her hands clutching her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela takes that instant of Napier being stationary to jump from her spot to drop behind him. He’s a little bit taller so she has to fight for leverage as he works to throw her over his shoulder and to the ground where Pamela can just make out the blood oozing through Harley’s fingertips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The vine at her wrist slithers and begins wrapping around his throat, pressing her forearm tighter into his exposed flesh. The jacket he has on is bulky though and she has a hard time hanging on even with the vine as he writhes and flails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages to maneuver in such a way as to catch her in the nose with an upward stroke of his elbow. The force behind it is not enough to break it but enough to send a spray of blood gushing out and Pamela tumbling back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The vine that had been holding her wrapped around his neck has snapped and lies withering in the snow. She can see Harley wearily moving behind Napier. When she uses her hand to push herself up, she leaves a rust colored print in the snow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela is angry. Furiously so. Harley is staggering to her feet but hurt. She failed to protect her. The rage of this courses through her body and now, it’s not just long tendrils wrapping around her arm anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everywhere from the chest plate, green curls out and rips at the fabric of her clothes as thorns unfurl from various places along the expanse of them. They scratch in the places Pamela can still feel on her body but a lot of sensation is gone from where the beaker shattered against Napier’s face. The skin is still burned, angry. Much like she is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her head tilts as a swirl goes up her neck, wraps around her cheek. The pure chaotic energy swirling through her, boosted by the green, makes her feel invincible. Pamela levels a death glare at Napier and by sheer thought alone, a vine shoots out and wraps around the man’s neck in earnest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela growls and bends her fingers into a fist, squeezing them as tight as she can. By proxy, the long and creeping plant compresses too. Napier claws and grapples to no avail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She vaguely registers Harley yelling from behind him, sees the glint of the silvery gun half buried in snow. Her vision is tunneled though as she strides forward to watch him struggle to breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should choke the life out of you, right here, right now,” she says through gritted teeth. The vine tightens. He chokes out a noise but then resorts to wheezing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pam, no!” Harley screams again, this time in front of her between him. Fluid runs from her ear and there’s a bloody graze on her cheek. Busted eardrum from the shot going off too close, torn flesh from the gun being too near in general. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are hands on her shoulders, threading through her hair. “Please, don’t do this. We aren’t like him.” Words enough to stop almost anyone. Not the one that wants to keep Harley safe from the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can’t be trusted,” Pamela answers lowly. Only a few seconds longer and he will go into blackout. Any longer, he’ll be a worthless sack of meat and bones extended in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Harley’s lips are on her, kissing her in a desperate way, the agony bittersweet on her lips. She cups Pamela’s cheeks on both sides, presses as close as she can get, no doubt pricking herself on the thorns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses Pamela for a lifetime. For only seconds. It makes Pamela want to cry when Harley pulls back and looks her in the eyes. “I love you. Please, Pam, Red. Let’s just walk away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her cheek goes to meet the hand caressing it, torn between wanting the harsh satisfaction of revenge, the tart sweetness of taking a moment to internalize Harley’s words. But any longer and Napier is dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shrillness of her scream pierces the desolation of the forest as she unclenches her fingers from making a fist, the greenery understanding her again and sending Napier dropping with a muted thump to the snow. Pamela doesn’t have to go over to him to know he’s still alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley saved her from becoming a murderer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reaching out with a shaking hand, she tries to calm the tremble of it as she touches Harley’s cheek. “I’m not a monster, Harls, I swear. But he tried to hurt you...he...the gun and…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh, hey. I know you,” Harley soothes. “Okay? I see all of you and I love every part of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s three times now she’s heard it. The magic charm of a number. Hopefully, the third time’s a charm and not three strikes you’re out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The vines skitter in retreat as Pamela works the breastplate off and flings it behind her, the smothered feeling clawing its way upward. She doesn’t want to be whoever the armor has made her if she’s going to tell Harley how she feels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing comes out and she leans their foreheads together, wills Harley to know the depth of her heart since her throat won’t work at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not this again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thinks. It’s a step back, she knows. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, Harley</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her mind can say it. Too bad her mouth can’t as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shuffles into Harley’s warmth, burrows in her neck, and grabs at her for dear life. A sob escapes she didn’t know she was holding. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>//</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>She watches as he stares out from the thick glass of the cop car, his face looking like it holds a crude smile from the way the acid has destroyed his skin. His green eyes are dead when they look out into space, but when he sees Harley approaching Pamela from a distance, his predator vision returns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela fights the urge to not shiver. Has to tell herself that for at least a little while, neither of them have to worry about Jack Napier because he will be tied up in so much red tape from legal matters, there will be no time for retaliation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spins from watching him to find Harley in the din of police now flocking to the research station. They’d managed to throw the remaining bullets into the forest, rendering the gun useless. Mercifully, Harley’s phone had picked up reception back at the cabin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unmercifully, Pamela had to drag Napier’s sorry ass back to the house. Still passed out, he’d been a docile traveler. Awake, he had been a dangerous and thwarted antagonist to have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think you’ve won, Isley. Quinzel will never be yours though. She’ll see that darkness in you as I have in me, and she’ll run for the hills.” The grin on his face after had been evil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuddering, Pamela scans the crowd and makes out Harley’s bent over figure huddling against a tree trunk and trying to grasp any sort of warmth she can in the biting cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, Pam reaches out and wraps Harley in her arms, squeezing her as tightly as possible as she buries her nose into the blonde strands that curl out from underneath Harley’s beanie. She breathes in the scent of her, the freshness of the natural elements around them, and tries to ease the rampant beat of her still on edge heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing behind them anymore that makes it worth staying but everything in front of her that makes it worth going. While she hadn’t planned on getting on a plane anytime soon, going back to Gotham with Harley seems like the only beacon of light shining at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Walk with me one more time?” Pamela requests and Harley nods. They move away from the flickering blue and red lights, the loudness created by too many people after months of hardly anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” Harley asks seriously as Pamela tries to burrow further into her jacket. What’s below presses against her ribs and makes her ache in more ways than one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, despite everything, she unzips her jacket and moves the folder with all of her test logs and notes over the project. Only a few months or putting hypotheses into practice but some calculations have been in the works for years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she withdraws it and holds it up while making a pained face. Harley’s eyes flick briefly to it and then back to Pamela. She doesn’t say anything. Waits for whatever is coming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They can’t have it, Harley. I can’t let them,” Pamela tries to find the right words. She watches as Harley’s mouth drops open and she shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve worked months on this here. Years on developing your theories before. Now you’d see them go up in flames, and for what?” Harley’s face twists in disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I’m nothing special! Because what I’ve created is! Because when you mix those two things, it’s fine and well but no part of what I’ve done can ever come to light. Out there,” she points into the forest again, shivers. “That armor made me into something else. I didn’t feel like a hero really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saved me though. Forget the rest. That’s what matters,” Harley tries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like how you said you loved me?” Pamela feels on more solid ground to address the elephant in the wilderness now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to say it back or anything. I just wanted you to know how I feel. How I’ve felt for a while. In Korean culture, there’s something called Hanahaki’s disease. It causes the unrequited love to well up in the person who feels enamored, for them to choke on the petals of roses.” She looks down at her hands, presses them to her throat. Gives a melancholic smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not suffocating on any flowers,” Pamela points out, steps forward, and runs her thumb over Harley’s parted lips, down the bob of her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’m not. Not yet anyway,” Harley plays off, as if in wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me,” Pamela commands, and Harley lifts up her eyes. “You’ll never have that, not in all of my years.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be so sure,” Harley shrugs, struggles. Pamela’s drawn this out long enough. She’s pretty sure Harley’s heart is breaking and soon, her own with not saying what needs to be said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life than with how in love with you I am,” Pamela answers, waits for the realization to hit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When it does, there’s Harley jumping up into her arms and kissing her with the newness of what they share between them dusting their lips as they move against one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take me home, Pam,” Harley requests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never letting her go from her arms, she begins their trek back to the house, back to Gotham. The file folder sits tucked in her jacket still, lighter a barely-there weight in her coat pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere tucked deep in the ground, deep in the forest, the armor sits in a charred crisp. Dying. Almost like weeping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the greater good, Pamela tries to remind herself and kisses Harley again as she makes her way with the woman in her arms. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Returning with Requests</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pamela and Harley come home and try to work their way through what happens next</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*I know nothing of the characterization of Mr. Blue Beetle/Ted Kord. I just went with the generic "nice guy" characterization.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gotham doesn’t feel like the same flytrap she left two months ago. Not when the plane touches down, not as she shuffles down the sky bridge to be hit with the smell of Gotham at its best and worst. </p><p>Not as she feels Harley loop her fingers through her own, feels her squeeze and keep Pamela moving forward. To baggage claim, to an Uber to take them home even when they live nowhere near each other. When the car stops in front of Harley’s loft apartment, she doesn’t move to get out at first. </p><p>“Wait here, yeah?” Ivy tells the driver. She glances over at Harley who stares out the window and skyward. Gazing up at the life she left behind, a life before the wilderness of Alaska and the nightmare of what she walked into. </p><p>What Pamela created. </p><p>She shakes her head, runs a hand through her red locks. The guilt she feels, the weight she carries from it, may never disappear. Harley’s hand in her own shakes her from her thoughts. </p><p>“Help me out?” Harley asks hopefully. Before Pamela can say anything, Harley has opened the door. </p><p>Pamela moves quickly out of her own door after her, managing to round the car before Harley can get it closed. Without thinking, Pamela wraps one hand around Harley’s waist and places her other on the woman’s cheek.</p><p>“No,” she nuzzles against Harley’s neck, holds her tight. “I don’t want you to leave.”</p><p>“I’ve got to go home,” Harley whispers into the strands of Pamela’s hair. She feels her brushing them with her fingertips and her heart swells. </p><p>“But you don’t. You could come with me and stay.” These words are tossed out in fear of what the answer will be. But she gains the courage and moves away to look Harley in the eyes. “You could stay with me forever.”</p><p>The gravity of what she’s asking is not lost on her nor Harley judging by the look on her face. “You’re serious,” Harley tilts her head. </p><p>“I am,” Pamela nods. </p><p>“Uh, this is kind of a big thing,” Harley laughs nervously. </p><p>In Pamela’s heart of hearts, she knows this is a big step. Huge in fact. Something that needs the time to be tossed around. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that she’d hoped the immediate response would be a ‘yes.’</p><p>“Right. You need time, I assume,” Pamela nods. It doesn’t stop her heart from aching. That maybe she could hear something other than what she wants.</p><p>“It’s not that I don’t get all gooey inside thinking about it but…I wasn’t exactly planning on bustin’ out the U-haul just yet,” Harley’s lips quirk at her own cleverness. Maybe also as a slight jab at Pamela putting the cart before the horse, so to speak. </p><p>Pamela rolls her eyes, knowing that’s it too much too soon. But three months ago, there hadn’t been Jack Napier. Three months ago, he hadn’t tried to steal her work with the intent to create metahumans. Fifteen weeks ago, he hadn’t been exported back to Arkham Asylum with half of his face missing, forever twisted in a grinning grimace. </p><p>Whether Harley understands the compulsion or not, Pamela knows that her protectiveness is rearing its head again. True enough, the city has its own kind of vigilante justice system, but requesting them to keep watch of Harley is not exactly a foregone conclusion. </p><p>This is personal, so much so that Pamela would consider even donning her own cape and mask if it meant keeping Harley safe from everything. (Capes and masks are ridiculous, she thinks. If she had to adopt an alternative suit, she’s more of a tight head to toe number anyway. She can just imagine the swirls of verdant color. Or a lovely little leotard with an abundance of green.)</p><p>“I know it’s a lot to think about,” Pamela looks away. “I’m sorry. I just...worry.”</p><p>Harley cups her cheek, pulling her gaze back so that they can lock eyes. “There’s nothing to apologize for. But you’re right. I do need time.”</p><p>Pamela tries to back away, but Harley stops her from retreating. “Hey, don’t run away from me. This time I’m asking for isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”</p><p>Pamela offers a depreciating smile. “I know.” She does. And while part of her can’t help but let her own fears run rampant, the other trusts Harley not to rip her heart out of her chest. </p><p>Harley leans forward, eyes fluttering shut as she gently begins to kiss Pamela’s lips. Like everything between the two of them lately, it heats up quicker than it should. Harley is the first to pull away. </p><p>“Alright, if I don’t leave now, you’ll have a huge Uber tab or I’ll never leave at all,” she huffs. </p><p>Never leaving at all was what I was hoping for. <em> Is </em> hoping for. Pamela doesn’t say any of this and just nods. </p><p>When Harley kisses her once more and disappears into her apartment building, Pamela stands on the Gotham street below staring for a long time. It’s hard to feel like she’s not leaving a huge part of herself behind as she slides back into the awaiting Uber. </p><p>But again, that’s the way Harley is, the effect she has on people. It’s hard to move away from what feels like the sun, the rest of life becoming an eclipse. Pamela can’t wait until she feels Harley’s warmth again. </p><p>**********************</p><p>Gotham U is abuzz but not in the pleasant bumble bee kind of way, instead resembling that of a fly or mosquito. Because with all of the hum, eyes also turn in Pamela’s direction as she walks anywhere. She’s been gone three months, but the word from last week is what follows her.</p><p>Not that the news channels help any. In fact, every broadcast holds some sort of rehash about what occurred in the forest, about how one of Gotham’s own is going mad in Arkham Asylum instead of rotting where he belongs, in Blackgate Prison.</p><p>The fact that a bunch of fancy lawyers managed to keep him from him actually getting his due is exasperating. It just goes to show that with a name and a little money to back reputation, anything is possible. </p><p>She’s stuck in this thought, tapping a pen at her desk when someone strides in and closes the door. Pamela works to stand but a palm goes up for her to refrain. She hovers between sitting and standing, looking into the bright blue eyes of none other than Ted Kord. </p><p>With roguish good looks and a meticulous edge to his dress, he looks dapper in his pinstripe suit that almost matches the color of his eyes. Sharp jawline and dark hair, he is the picture of mischievous good looks that could disarm anyone. </p><p>That is to say, if Pamela were just anyone. But he barely registers <em> that </em> way on her radar, her mind going to another striking pair of blue eyes. Not as if she and Kord have ever had many conversations about why she isn’t fawning over his finer features or skill set, but there seems to be some unspoken understanding there too: Pamela’s interests lie elsewhere. </p><p>That being said, they do have a common point of interest. Or failure now. Pamela isn’t too sure to concede it is a flop to herself since she has a few secrets of her own, even if she has told the man before her that the project was essentially a complete loss. </p><p>“How’s the hero work?” she says as an ice breaker. It’s hard to imagine him zipping around in a ridiculous tight blue suit and mask. She tilts her head and looks at what he currently wears. <em> Well, maybe not. </em></p><p>“Would be a lot better if I had a suit with brand new tech,” he shrugs and sits down in the chair across from her desk. She finally takes a seat as well. </p><p>It’s hard trying to school her features. She does her best to keep her thoughts unreadable. She does feel some level of regret for not being able to give her discoveries to Kord, and in turn, the world. </p><p>“Right, gosh. I’m so, so sorry about how things turned out. I truly wanted to deliver a win for you on the project. I meticulously conducted experiments and sent you what data I…”</p><p>“Ms. Isley, you cannot carry the guilt of the project's demise solely on your shoulders. I am partially to blame as well. While Jack Napier had no red flags previously, I did push him to oversee your findings because of my own zeal. I saw the potential of your work and lost sight of what mattered the most: you having the right support and a safe work environment,” he sighs and rubs his temples. A grin spreads on his face and he shrugs. “Would a little groveling help here?”</p><p>Pamela feels a maelstrom of emotions. Here is this likable man, admitting his own shortcomings while wanting the best of the world. Using his time and money to make sure real changes are made. And she’s about to lie to him in the face. Because trusting anyone seems too big a risk to take. </p><p>“No groveling needed, I assure you,” Pamela smiles. “But the grant…l</p><p>“The money is the least of my concerns,” Kord waves off. “In the grand scheme of things. Don’t get me wrong, it does help to have, but my ultimate goal is to leave the world in a little better spot than I found it.”</p><p>Pamela’s heart aches.<em> No matter what. </em> She knows the truth of what she’s created cannot be told to anyone. <em> But then there’s Harley </em>. Another cramp in her chest. </p><p>“A noble cause,” Pamela clears her throat and nods. </p><p>“What other kind is there?” Kord responds and his blue eyes bore. “I sense a kindred spirit in us. I think that maybe, even right here and now, you’re that kind of person too.”</p><p>“Oh, no. The world is much too big to save,” she shakes her head, flustered. </p><p>“You don’t exactly have to save it, Pamela. You just have to want to try. And sometimes, that’s half of the battle.” He rises then, smooths the invisible wrinkles out of his jacket, and heads for the door. </p><p>When it closes, Pamela pulls off her glasses. Her head finds the wood grain of her desk and she sighs loudly. </p><p>***********************</p><p>Coffee fixes things, right? Can fix the fact that she just got done being exactly the type of person she’s never been a fan of. </p><p>Pamela let’s this eat at her as she stirs in way too much creamer and gets too pulled under by her thoughts, leaving her in a sort of zombie mode functioning daze. That is until she’s jostled out of it by bumping into someone else. </p><p>There are hands on her helping to steady her body and she knows these hands. Has felt them absolutely everywhere. Her surprise wraps around her words when she speaks. </p><p>“Harley?” She had been so wrapped up in the residual feelings of the meeting with Kord, she hadn’t even thought to text Harley. </p><p>But there she is, all big blue eyes behind dark frames and pale pink lips hanging open in her own kind of surprise. Her deep burgundy sweater contrasts with the pink tinge of her cheeks and her legs look wonderful from underneath her gray pencil skirt. Pamela’s palms itch to reach out, but she remembers where they are and tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. </p><p>“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention and…” but Harley is leading her firmly by her bicep out of the cafeteria and past the crowded halls, maneuvering them into a deserted stairwell area.</p><p>She cups Pamela’s cheek and shakes her head. “I didn’t know you were back.”</p><p>“Yeah, I had some things to catch up on since I’m not stranded in the middle of nowhere in a cabin anymore. Wrapping up the final paperwork on the failed grant,” Pamela tries to keep her wits about her as Harley’s thumb caresses a streak across her cheekbone. </p><p>A door opens somewhere above and Harley takes a step back. “Walk you to your next class?” The perfect picture of formality. </p><p>Pamela only nods and takes off up the stairs toward the door. She can feel Harley’s presence trailing behind her. They hear the door close further up, somewhere on the third or fourth floor.</p><p>As soon as it closes, Pamela is being pushed against the wall and those delectable pink lips are ravaging her own. Harley is pressed as close as she can humanly get and both of their glasses awkwardly shove against each other as they move roughly together, Harley in the same frenzy she gets into when she seems to lose sight of herself. </p><p>Her fingers are lifting Pamela’s leg, pressing and then pushing under her black skirt while the other lifts the heft of a bra clad breast. </p><p>And really, is she about to get her skirt completely lifted in a college stairwell where anyone can see? If she lets this continue, that will certainly be the case because it feels so damn <em> good </em>and even though it’s only been about a week since she dropped Harley off at her apartment, she finds herself caring little if they’re discovered. </p><p>Seeming to have more resolve than herself, Harley breaks them apart. A grin curls at her thoroughly kissed lips. She wipes a finger along them with a Cheshire smile. </p><p>“Why, hello,” Pamela husks out with a laugh. “I’d apologize for not telling you I was on campus, but with a greeting like that, I’m finding it hard to wish I had.”</p><p>Harley tilts her head and purses her lips. Her fingers are still roaming. “I get concerned too, you know. At least allow me that.”</p><p>“Fine,” Pamela lets out in a breathy sigh, far beyond reproach when Harley’s fingers are grazing at delicate spots. “So what about that answer you owe me since we are talking about concerns?”</p><p>She watches as a sly look travels across Harley’s face. “Hmm, I do think a little punishment is in order since you left me hanging…”</p><p>Pamela spins her then, grinds Harley’s extended leg into her hips. “So is that a yes?” She starts the process Harley began on her, fingertips dancing along naked skin as she slowly raises her garment. “The science department versus the psychology department. Who can hold out the longest, hmm?”</p><p>Somehow it doesn’t matter that she’s now participating in this wild display of desire. Pamela doesn’t care. She’s on Cloud 9 anyway. Leaning forward, she ghosts her mouth across the expanse of Harley’s exposed throat. </p><p>“You win!” Harley squeaks out in a breathless shudder. “I’m totally going to mix all my shit with yours though, so get ready.”</p><p>Pamela can’t help but laugh and continue to float. She hopes this happiness lasts forever. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Moving into Metahumanity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pamela decides that it's time to bring her research into the world when Gotham has a new villain that cannot be tamed.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*If you have been here from the beginning, thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. I know some said they didn't want the story to really go in a canonical direction and stay AU, but the bulk of this has been written for quite some time and I just polished up the whole chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They get seven beautiful months together after a space for one becomes two. Thirty uninterrupted weeks of bliss. Pamela’s never been much of a believer in perfection—-until Harley. Harley Quinzel who changed the very rhythm of her heart. Made it beat to a different cadence than it always had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Quinzel who does indeed mix her shit with all of Pamela’s, an eclectic whirl of the wild with oddly heartwarming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, Pamela had watched as Harley unpacked boxes, bit her lip to the point of almost piercing it through from every time she’d ask permission to put something somewhere. It had only taken about two dozen times to assure her she didn’t need to ask and that it was now her home too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d let her lease go back up, closed the doors on her old life, and walked into Pamela’s to try to push the past away and stitch a life together with the two of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bargaining had been hard, watching Harley work through things like she was experiencing the five stages of grief. Denial that she should have done the move at all, anger at herself for moving in on top of Pamela without talking about it more, so many “what-ifs” that Pamela could hardly keep up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they’d held on. They’d held on because they both knew that whatever was planted, whatever was growing between them was greater than anything they had faced or would face in the future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worry with furrowed brows became light and airy smiles, curled up on the couch watching a movie neither one of them could ever agree on. Pamela’s head would fall on Harley’s shoulder as she always started out with rapt attention but would always inevitably fall over asleep by the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The “what-ifs” turned into wild dreams and big plans. Countries to visit and continents to traverse when the time was right and they needed to just get away. Harley had come home with a map, one they had taped to a wall and put little pushpins in together, Pamela standing behind Harley with a chin on her shoulder and hands on her hips as they thought about a future together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was rarely any anger, hardly a time they couldn’t brush past whatever had happened because taking on the world divided seemed too daunting a task and it just felt better to have the other by their side. Because they were a package deal now, the same peas in a pod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She creeps up to Harley now, dying sunlight casting an ethereal glow over the woman as she pulls on a silky gown from stepping freshly out of the shower. The strands of her hair are wet against the cotton of Pamela’s shirt, but she is mindless of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley’s mouth is against hers, her absolute favorite feeling in the world. She could float along in the bliss of this forever. If forever were a concept that existed. Pamela supposes it’s better to get pieces of it than never have a sliver at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spins Harley to look out of the window, loves the way the light casts brightness and shadows equally over her body. Since the very first time, Harley never ceases to take Pamela’s breath away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you regret it?” she asks, sort of knowing the answer anyway. How Harley misses her old life sometimes even though theirs has grown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, the park is no Chinese food shop beside a bomb ass margarita joint, but it is closer to work,” Harley reasons through it. Pamela groans and Harley smiles. “Oh, right. I guess you being here too is the perk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” Pamela presses Harley against the ledge a little, swivels her hips as Harley moves a hand to the warm glass. She places her lips where her fingers have glided along the pale skin underneath. “I guess it’s like the saying goes: beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But you’re not seriously mourning your Chinese food shop, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really good noodles,” Harley shakes her head as Pamela’s fingers dip to swirl in the growing wetness below the line of Harley’s panties. “There are prettier things than a park, Pam.” Harley pants, sighs, lets out an unending moan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a hard time believing that,” Pamela scoffs a little bit then does her own moaning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley takes the hand between her legs, brings it up between them. Watches as Pamela swirls the digits around on her lips, takes a finger into her mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And even though it’s been months, they’re still fire. Still irrevocably joined by the insanity in the forest, the wild thing that’s between them. That crazy thing called love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m looking right at it, Red,” Harley whispers. Nothing else needs to be said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela carries her to bed, shows her the depth of what’s crammed inside her heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*******************</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all starts not long after that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day, the pleading words are scrawled on his official letterhead and arriving at Pamela’s door. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, help me fight. -TK</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She flips the note over and sideways, around and back again. Nothing else. Not even a smudge of the ink anywhere else on the pristine paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley ambles up, wraps her arms around Pamela’s waist, rests her chin on her shoulder. She says nothing, but Pamela knows she has so much to say. Especially with Napier’s trial coming to a close, with him beginning his stint at Arkham. With him declaring war on the city in a desperate scream as film crews latched onto his every word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s talk of a league beginning, one of heroes. Pamela wonders if she ignores the note, forgets it in a physical drawer but not a drawer in her mind, if she’ll be seen as a rogue. If she and Harley will be left to their own devices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll not give him all of it,” Pamela whispers and Harley’s chin digs a little into her shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pam, the world…” her words are smothered by Pamela’s lips as her lithe body is hoisted onto the countertop. The note burns under Pamela’s fingers. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.” Harley’s pale blue eyes fix her against them, an insect pinned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela already knows how this works out anyway. The end is coming. She aims to have a little more good before it does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*******************</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing good lasts forever. Because everything that goes up must come down. Pamela hates that laws of physics apply to the heft of hearts too. It’s these things that she ponders in the hours between sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because there are hours now. Because sometimes shadows don’t stay in the dark anymore. The shadow escapes, over and over again, using the blacktop streets of the city to carve out his personal fun zone. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is how monsters are born,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Pamela thinks as the tv screen flickers in the faint light of their Gotham apartment. The scene, simply put, is terrifying. The ransacked buildings piles of rubble, the overworked and underpaid cops of Gotham looking grim-faced. Something both she and Harley have seen before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because they’ve been inside of it, living the nightmare that keeps on playing and never seeming like it will end. The demon followed them back to the streets they belong to, that it originally had as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no getting rid of Jack Napier and as Pam watches his face shine on the screen, his gnarled features in a grimace and his eyes pure lightning, she can’t help but feel like this is the animal that she’s let out of a cage. That’s she helped to bury a sword in his back and leave him to stalk the world wounded and incensed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever Harley thinks, she mostly keeps it to herself. They both remember a time when the blonde thought he could be redeemable, that maybe it was only a matter of perspective of how the world viewed him. Neither is quick to point out that she was wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gotham has a Joker. At least that’s what he calls himself. He creates a sideshow train wreck wherever he goes. So all of that chaos is likely to draw attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his case, a bat and a beetle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam’s brain hurts from the way Gotham has turned upside down. She tries to fall asleep beside Harley every night but she rarely does, instead either staring at the ceiling for hours or gingerly rising from the bed to pace or stare out the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been eight months since the events in the forest. Eight months since she and Harley had come home to begin a life together of whatever bits and pieces they had managed to create. A whole year since Pam had walked into the office of the most wonderful person she’s ever known.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the tv goes dark and she’s got Harley in her arms, the woman asleep against her, she tries to extricate herself from the muscular arms and strong hands—which just wrap even tighter around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not tonight,” the muffled voice says against the soft fabric of her t-shirt. “For the last few weeks, I’ve let you leave. Not tonight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam scoffs lightly and lays a cheek against the top of Harley’s head. She knows Harley feels the thumping rhythm of her heart from where her fingers lay lightly atop her chest a little above her breast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not for lack of trying,” Pam sighs finally, referring to the sleep that comes in spurts. “There’s just so much going on and…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She trails off and feels Harley shift off of the top of her only to throw a leg over Pam’s hips and straddle them. Golden hair falls down in a streak and Pam reaches up to run her hands through it, to touch the pinking of Harley’s cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Red,” Harley breathes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam takes a moment to remind herself that this is her life, that Harley has chosen her. But her face goes serious when she feels the incessant pressing of what’s happening in Gotham overtake her again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kord is out there fighting. While I do what? Sit here?” Her voice is low when she says it. She hasn't forgotten the letter. She never will. Harley fixes her with her blue eyes and wraps her fingers around the back of her neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gave him a way to fight,” Harley tries to reason. “The suit you developed for him. If it protected you, you have to trust that it will protect him too, no matter what is happening in Gotham.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since the letter, there has been a prototype. Nothing close to what Pamela’s research developed but the olive branch she was willing to extend in Kord’s favor. One that he could retrofit his suit with, the other contents hidden darkly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pamela sighs and runs her hands over her face. “But I’m afraid, Harley. No part of me feels like I can become complacent for even a second. If it were just me, then all of this wouldn’t bother me so badly. But the stakes are greater now than they’ve ever been. I’d be a fool to think he isn’t bitter about what happened in the wild,” Pam’s voice is tight with emotion, her hands moving to wring Harley’s shirt the rests against her hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not hero people, Pam. Leave it to the rest of Gotham to fight the shadows,” Harley tries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The other shoe will drop. It just has to. I have to protect us,” Pam looks up into Harley’s blue blaze of irises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not hiding from him,” the blonde answers succinctly. “I know you’re afraid and sometimes, I am too. But he’s not bigger than the both of us. Of what we can accomplish together.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Harley swoops in that sweeping way that tends to catch Pam up in it like a swirling monsoon or spinning vortex of more than Pam can combat. Or wants to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley removes the scant articles of clothing that either of them wears, leaving them skin against skin and the only place Pam ever feels truly safe anymore, at peace: in Harley’s arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While they haven’t defined what they have together, neither of them willing to string together sets of adjectives and nouns, Pam knows when Harley is making love to her. She can feel it all the way down to her bones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when Harley lifts Pam’s right leg and hooks it against the bareness of her own, when she runs her fingers through the growing slick at the juncture of Pam’s thighs, the touch is a sweet duality of soft but with enough pressure behind it to matter. To have intent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam lets herself get lost in the movements of Harley’s hand, the sensations of the way her fingers touch in just the right places and spots, move in precisely the right way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley leans up, her breasts push against Pam’s, and she looks into the green of her eyes. Never lets go of them with every flick of her wrist, every motion of her thumb, every plunge of her other fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be scared. I’m here. I’m here,” Harley whispers between the swiping of her fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam would love to speak, to have anything spill out of her mouth that her brain thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m scared of what Gotham will look like someday after he tears it all down. I’m scared that the way I am, I can’t protect you from the world. I’m scared to lose you because I’ll never be the same. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But a wail erupts and she’s inside of it with Harley inside of her and the world narrows for long enough that she can give herself to the pleasure that Harley has brought forth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the slickness still coating the inside of her thighs, she flips Harley to bring her underneath her, lowers her mouth, and traces down the curves of her body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down, down, down, she goes and she thinks that if Harley was trying to relax her mind for a while, this was definitely the way to go. But the things left unsaid still loom and at some point, even the sweetness on Pam’s tongue can’t stop the conversation they need to have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>******************</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s tracing light patterns on Harley’s naked back, watches as her eyelids flutter behind closed eyes with every pass of her hand. Pam chews the inside of her cheek, finally working up the nerve to say what she’s wanted to ever since they got back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I figured it out, right?” she asks in a low whisper. Harley grunts something that sounds close to a hum too. “How to combine human and plant DNA.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Harley’s eyes open. Still so strikingly blue considering they’ve spent most of the predawn hours awake in one another’s arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We watched my life’s work burn, yes, but I still remember how to do it,” Pam admits. “How I could do it to maybe help Gotham or something. I don’t know.” She moves her gaze away as she finishes, feels Harley shift to sit up, heedless of the bareness of her chest as the sheets pool at her hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be serious, Pam,” Harley shakes her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she looks back, she knows there’s palpable anguish in her eyes. “I have to do something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley scoots even closer. “You have no idea what this could do to you. How it could change you. For fuck’s sake, you could even die! I’m not willing to risk losing you! Not when it feels like we’ve just begun,” Harley grabs for Pam’s hand on the bed, swallows. “Because I love you.” She sighs heavily, her eyebrows knitted together with worry over the weight of her words. “I’m in love with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam sits, unsure of what to say. “Oh,” is what comes out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley tilts her head and chews on her lip. “Not exactly the response I was hoping for the next time I told you that I loved you, that I want to be with you forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I’m offering—I think it could be though. Us and a forever I mean,” Pam scoots in so that she can wrap an arm around Harley’s hip. “This way, I don’t think I would ever have to say goodbye to you. Or you to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean injecting yourself. Experimenting on yourself until some other version emerges.” Harley shakes her head. “When I said ‘forever,’ I wasn’t exactly talking literally. This is serious. Metahumanity is serious. It’s never been done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That we know of. But let’s say it hasn’t. If anyone should be the first to try it, shouldn’t it be me?” She chances a look at Harley. “Shouldn’t it be us?” Harley’s eyebrows raise to the sky. “I’m trying to give us a fighting chance against </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She points toward the direction of the long dark tv. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, an explosion shakes the walls. Picture frames topple, glass trembles in the panes. Both women share a look as they grab a sheet from the bed and run to where they can just make out the plume of smoke filling the skyline. It’s very near. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam thinks her ears are deceiving her when she hears the words. She has to do a double-take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what about forever, Red?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a word, Pam pulls Harley from the chaos out of the window, staggering as another explosion rocks the house. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Closer still.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Way past modesty, Pam drops the sheet and retrieves a lockbox from the small cooler in her workspace. She pulls out a syringe with bright green fluorescent liquid in it. She watches Harley swallow roughly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lump of cotton in her own throat feels unclearable as she turns the syringe around and offers the plunger end to Harley. Air shudders out of her in a shaking breath, just like the tremor in her hands as she takes the item finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What will it do to you?” Harley’s voice is barely audible and her eyes are on the verge of tears. “I don’t want to hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, Harley. Not fully anyway. But there will probably be some pain as the cells are spliced and fused. The end result is a little hazy too. But this is the only way I know to fight what’s happening in this city. What got brought back to it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam holds out her arm, balling her fingers up into a fist. Making a constricting band, she wraps it around her arm and then points where Harley should find a good vein. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pam,” Harley gasps and Pam feels the tears splatter on her fingers every few seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold me through it? Whatever happens?” Pam tries to cut Harley off, to slice through her own jaunty nerves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. We’ll be together forever, right?” Harley almost sobs, grabbing Pam’s wrist and lowering the needle to set upon her skin at the crook of her arm. Pam can make out the faint sharpness to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were anyway,” Pam offers a smile, uses the free hand not held in Harley’s to run her knuckles across her cheek. “I love you. More than anything.” Her own voice is resolute as she says this. The future always had Harley in it and her heart was wrapping itself around love from the first moment Pam laid eyes on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley lunges forward, crashes their lips together. Pam feels the press of her naked body against her own. The blissfulness of humanity tangling with the ever-present fear of it too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d gasp if her lips were free, but Harley’s still got them locked together fiercely, her mouth never letting go. But as she kisses Pam, she also shoves the needle beneath her flesh and presses the chemical into Pam’s bloodstream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It burns like fire, like being scorched from the inside. Pamela lets Harley suck away her scream with her mouth, lets herself be held in a vice-like grip as things start to change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes anchor her. With each tear that slides out of them, Pam fights even harder. At the way her body is rearranging itself. At the way she feels everything shattering from the inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter. She and Harley do. They’re going to save Gotham. And if that works? Maybe the world.</span>
</p>
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